


A Place Like This

by aesirgirl



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Lady Bird (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake ID use, Kyle goes to Columbia, Kyle is a Sinner and he Does Not Care, M/M, kyle has conversations with his thoughts, me: doesn't care, me: fucks with the timelines, they met in a bar, yes I know this is weird please judge me in the comments down below, you see where this is going already
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-19 02:30:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16525595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesirgirl/pseuds/aesirgirl
Summary: Kyle Scheible, eighteen years old, somewhere between a genius and a complete disaster of a human. Oliver Goodman, twenty-four, just one year out from his doctorate. One bar, one night, one LING UN3101 - Introduction to Linguistics course.And Kyle knows he's royally fucked.





	1. What's a Nice Boy Like You Doing in a Place Like This?

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this fic! I couldn't tell you why I felt compelled to write it, but I did, so... here it is. Oliver never met Elio, Kyle graduated and his family moved to New York, you'll get more details later.

_You shouldn’t be here_ , a voice in his brain told him.

_Shut up_ , he immediately replied, part of him convinced he’d spoken the words out loud. The voice was right - he shouldn’t be there. He absolutely should not be in this bar, his hand wrapped around a glass of - _god, what did I order…?_ He sipped it. _Right. I didn’t order it. I flirted with that guy, he’s gotta be at least 30, and he got me a… **vodka cranberry**_ **.** Brow furrowing, Kyle looked down at the drink. _Gross_. Of all the drinks in the world, he ordered a _vodka cranberry_. 

_It’s not like you’re not going to drink it_ , the voice pipes up again.

_You’re right_ , Kyle replied, going to lean against the wall, raising the cup to his lips to sip from it. _Still gross_ , he decided. 

_Gross enough to down it all in one go?_

_Oh, definitely._ Raising the glass to his lips, he downed the rest of the drink, wincing as he tried to keep his full body from shivering in response to the drink. Alcohol was alcohol, he could remember Jonah saying to him one night at a party, where all they had was shitty beer that tasted like it’d been watered down about a thousand times.

This shitty vodka cranberry was enough to make him feel warm, a bit lighter on his toes, eager enough to go flirt with somebody else who looked willing to buy him a drink. He still preferred not to use money. The less he could participate in the economy, the better. 

Sparing a glance around the bar, he didn’t find anyone particularly eye-catching. He wasn’t about to go to the vodka cranberry man again; that would only earn him another shitty vodka cranberry, and, honestly, Kyle would rather sober up than have another one of those. So, holding his place against the wall, restlessly bouncing on his toes, Kyle held his empty glass and pondered the situation he’d gotten himself into. 

_What’s a Nice Girl Like You Doing in a Place Like This? - Scorsese, 1963, while he was still a film student_ \- Kyle’s mind provided to him, shaking his head a bit to push that thought away, fingers of his left hand going to drum at the back of the booth that he was standing beside. Returning to the beginning of that thought, though, a little smirk rose up onto his cheeks. What _was_ a nice boy like him doing at a place like this? Some shitty bar around 116th - honestly? Kyle couldn’t tell you how far he’d wandered from his dorm room. But here he was.

So what was he doing in a place like this? Well, simple questions provided simple answers. His first day of his first semester at Columbia was the next Monday - two days from the Saturday night it was. Majoring in Mechanical Engineering, he had a busy semester ahead of him. Kyle was a jittery person - aside from when he had a (decent or better) book in his hand, a cigarette between his fingers - and there were no decent books to be found in his dorm room quite yet. He’d just moved into the dorm two days ago, and he was already tired of his roommate. 

This is where the simple answer starts getting a little convoluted. His ( ~~pain of a~~ ) roommate asked if he could have his girlfriend over that night. Of course - of _course_ he had a girlfriend. _Dumb idea_ , Kyle’s mind piped up again, and he was prone to agree. _Why the fuck would you enter your first year at college - at college in New York City, of all places - taken? That’s just like having metaphorical shackles around you at all times._ But he didn’t want to get into a fight with his roommate so soon into the year. So, he’d just agreed, mentioned that he was ‘going out’, grabbed his wallet and his jacket, and left. 

He’d showed up at the bar a half an hour later, with one cigarette missing from his collection. Guess this is it, he decided as he’d looked up at it, tilting his head to the side slightly. Fishing into his pocket, he’d tugged out his fake - _Scheible, Kyle Simon_ , it read, _blah blah blah, blah blah blah, 11/20/1995_. He could pass for 22, he thought, and the bartender was prone to agree, when he handed it over accompanied by the cost of a tequila sunrise. He’d pay for the first and let the other patrons buy the rest, he decided. Mixing alcohols had never been a problem for him, so it didn’t really matter what he drank. 

Tequila sunrise led to shitty vodka cranberry, and Kyle was already feeling warm, loose, and just a little light in the head. He was going over his schedule in his mind - math, chemistry, physics, computer language, some linguistics course to fill a “nontechnical elective” requirement, and - get this - physical education. _Fucking_ physical education at 9:10 in the _fucking_ morning on Mondays and Wednesdays. All while going over his schedule, searching for a victim to get him a third drink to get him a little warmer, a little looser, and a little more lightheaded, his eyes landed on a man - the perfect target, really - standing in a corner that was darker than it probably should’ve been - a bulb out, most likely.

Blond hair, green button-down, khakis - Converse? _Those don’t really fit, but whatever you want, man_ , he thought, pushing himself off of the wall and confidently striding towards the man. “Hey,” he greeted, taking a spot beside him and leaning against the wall again. “Name’s Kyle.” Angling his body towards the man, a little smile raised up on his face as he looked at him. _Tall. Very, very tall. I’m supposed to be tall. He’s gotta be, like… 6’5”. At least._ Upon getting a look of his face, he decided that the man was as tall as he was handsome. A good choice to try to talk into a drink, especially because it seemed like the guy had to be at least two drinks in - had he really been lost in his thoughts about his schedule that much? “What’s the name I’m gonna be moaning tonight?” No response. Really? Could the man just not hear him? That line typically got a response out of any guy with some sense in him.

“So…” he spoke up again, tapping his fingers against his thigh, trying to get the stranger’s attention. “Here’s the deal. You’re gonna buy me a drink, then you’re gonna take me home, then you’re gonna have the best night of your life.” Sex was an easy thing to barter, for Kyle. As long as the stranger wore protection - or he wore protection, depending on who he was bartering with - it was easy for him to give. Unspecial sex happened, it didn’t bother him.

It bothered that girl you were gonna take to prom. Jenna’s weird friend. If he wasn’t so drunk, he was certain that he’d be able to remember the name of the girl. It didn’t matter. Long story short, he was willing to give up sex if it meant getting what he wanted. And, hey, going to some stranger’s place meant not having to deal with his roommate and his girlfriend that night, at least until they were asleep. So, to Kyle, it was a win-win.

“You aren’t old enough for that.” Kyle turned fully to face the man as he spoke, eyebrows slowly raising. So he _had_ heard him the whole time.

“What?”

“You heard me. How old are you, kid?”

 “Twenty-two.” _According to my ID_ , he added nonverbally. It’s not a lie if you just don’t say half of it. He was on a three-year streak of not lying, and he was not about to break it now.

“No, you’re not.” The man clearly had alcohol in him, based solely on the sound of his voice. Maybe a breakup, maybe a rough day at work ( _who works in Converse? And it’s - what, eleven something at night?_ ) who knows? Not Kyle. But, now, it was up to him to defend himself. 

“My ID says I’m twenty-two.” He offered it forward, but the man didn’t take it. Clearly, he couldn’t fool everybody. 

“What does your _real_ ID say?” The way the man spoke made him want to answer. There was something about his voice - something about the way it sounded warm, sounded welcoming, even when slightly intoxicated - that made Kyle weak in the knees. And, well, Kyle had had enough alcohol to affect him, too, so, sliding the fake back into his pocket, he rested his chin on the man’s shoulder, pressing his lips to the shell of his ear. 

“Eighteen…” Kyle had to physically stop himself from giggling. Nineteen in November, but eighteen until then. The full truth. Nobody else had asked him that, and, well, he wasn’t about to lie just to try to get a drink out of a handsome man. 

“Mm-hm…” the man nodded slowly, taking another sip of the beer he had in his hand. _Big hand_ , his drunk mind provided. _Very big hand. You know what they say about big hands._

_Remember when you were telling me I shouldn’t be here, like, an hour ago?_ he might’ve thought if he was sober, but he wasn’t. Maybe he _shouldn’t_ have downed that vodka cranberry, which only tasted like shit because it was too strong for him (and, well… it was cranberry. Who _actually_ liked cranberry juice?).

“Well… my offer still stands. You buy me that drink - I don’t really care if it’s one’a those… whatever you’re drinking-s, or whatever - and then you take me home, and I’ll give you a pretty damn good night.” Kyle thought that he was pretty good in bed. He’d slept with… what, about… twelve people? He didn’t keep a list. He wasn’t really sure how many it had been, between men and women, California and New York, Xavier and Columbia. Well, his Columbia body count was still a big fat zero, but, in the two months it’d been since his family had moved to New York, the number had risen. People didn’t really complain, because he didn’t give them time to complain. Meet on Tinder, Grindr, whatever. Go to their place (never his, the brownstone his mother had moved into was not a place Kyle wanted to bring guests), have sex, get dressed, leave. There was no chance of getting kicked out when you took the incentive to leave before they had the opportunity to tell you to.

“You couldn’t handle it.” 

Consider this twice that Kyle was shocked, then. “I — what…?” He drew his head back slightly, brow furrowing. This guy must think that he’s dumber than he is. 

“You. Couldn’t. Handle. It.” 

_Wow_. That tone of voice was enough to make Kyle practically melt. Clearing his throat, he shook his head, pushing a hand through his hair to get it off of his face. “No, no — I’m - I’m pretty sure I _could_ handle it,” he finally replied, moving to stand in front of the guy - still nameless - to force him to look at him.

Based solely on the way the man’s pupils were dilated, Kyle could tell that he had had enough to drink to be past tipsy, the same way Kyle himself was. Luckily, it seemed like they could both still handle their words while drunk. 

“Prove it.” _Goddamn, is this guy just going to keep throwing bombs at me? …prove it._ How could he possibly prove it? They were in the middle (well, no, the corner) of this bar, and - _oh, he’s talking again_. “Put your hand down my pants and prove it.” _Oh…_ those words were enough to make the jeans Kyle had on grow a little tighter. _I can prove it…_

Both drunk, both in need of something, Kyle figured that he could appease the guy. It meant being out of his dorm for the night, meant getting some (hopefully) very good sex, meant getting to look at those pretty blue eyes of his at least for the next hour or two. So, without sparing a glance around, Kyle deftly undid the man’s belt, button, and zipper, slipping his hand into his pants.

What he found there was… _god_ , amazing. Fucking _ace_. His assumption on big hands was right. Resting his chin against the man’s chest, Kyle let out a breath through his nose that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I can handle it,” he muttered, nodding once, firmly. He’d never even _tried_ to handle something that big, but Kyle Scheible was no quitter. Especially not when it meant getting somebody as handsome as this guy. 

It seemed like the stranger was as affected by this as Kyle was - likely more, because, well… Kyle’s hand was very clearly on him, touching, exploring, curious, desire coursing through him. He felt the man’s chin in his hair, felt it move up and down - a nod. “Oliver…” he then whispered, leaving Kyle’s brow furrowing. 

“What…?” he asked, moving his head back to look at him, his hand still lingering in his pants. “No. Kyle. I told you that.” _Did you tell him that? I’m pretty sure I told him that._

“M’name’s Oliver, goose…” the man - Oliver - mumbled, taking Kyle’s wrist and pulling it from his pants. With one final swig of the beer, Oliver abandoned the empty bottle on a table in arm’s reach, doing up his pants and his belt almost as quickly as Kyle had managed to undo them.  

Kyle watched, his mouth hanging slightly agape, the corners of his lips tugged slightly upwards. It felt like there was a halo around this guy’s head - maybe it was just the fact that he’d turned so his back was to the bar, a light directly behind his head. Or maybe he was an angel. Kyle wasn’t one to assume anything. “Oliver…” he whispered back, trying out the name on his tongue. Yes, it felt good. It felt right. It was a name he could use for the night. 

It seemed to please Oliver, too. Good. The look in his eyes was enough for Kyle to practically bounce on his toes at. So far, everything was working out for him. A good start to his first year at Columbia, he decided. If every night went like this night, he’d be in good shape. If his grades were as good as this night was going, he’d be in good shape. _Your grades literally do not matter, Kyle. It’s all part of the establishment._

_You’re right,_ he agreed with his thoughts, _it doesn’t matter, I’m -_ but before he could continue his mental conversation with himself, he felt a big hand (rough. That’s odd, why are his hands calloused like that? Work, probably.) wrap around his wrist again. Kyle allowed Oliver to lead him out of the bar and towards - oh, they were going on the subway. Probably not the best idea while drunk, what, with the way it screeched to a stop faster than Kyle could gain his footing even while sober, but he had to hope that Oliver would keep him safe. 

_You don’t know him_ , his mind pointed out as they walked down the stairs, swiped each of their MetroCards, and waiting for the 1 uptown. _Nope_ , he agreed, _but he’s going to keep me safe_. What a bad habit of Kyle’s - trusting strangers while drunk. The train pulled to a stop in front of them, and Kyle let Oliver pull him on. Luckily, in two months, Kyle had made a pretty good mental map of the New York subway system, so, even if he did start to distrust Oliver - _not gonna happen -_ he could find his way back to his dorm pretty easily. 

Standing on a nearly-empty train as it pulled away, Kyle found himself standing facing Oliver, whose hand was gripping onto the bar above them. He moved to wrap one of his arms around Oliver’s torso, the other hand going to rest on the taller man’s chest. Yes, he decided, fingers toying with the button on the button-up he was wearing, it would be a good night after all.


	2. After Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the explicit rating you guys all came for. Kyle and Oliver spend a night together.

Kyle prided himself on being able to navigate the subway, yes. That didn’t mean he prided himself on his ability to keep his balance on the subway, though. Especially when he was chest to chest with a gorgeous man - a man who Kyle would drunkenly decide was an angel of some sort. The subway pulled away from the platform, Kyle barely managing to hold onto Oliver as it picked up speed.

Typically, he would sit, but he wasn’t about to drag this 6’5” angel into one of those chairs. Kyle could only imagine what Oliver would look like trying to fit himself into a subway seat. Even seeing him on the train was amusing. If there had been a crowd around them, as opposed to a fully empty train ( _weird. Saturday nights on the 1 shouldn’t be this empty, even if we’re going uptown. What time is it? Nah - not gonna move to check my watch. Things are good_.) Kyle was sure he’d be able to see Oliver’s head above the crowd.

He felt one of Oliver’s legs slide between his thighs, causing him to release a shaky breath. He pressed his nose into the man’s chest, his hand balling up in the back of the green button-down. _Ugly shirt_ , he decided. _Pretty man, ugly shirt._

_Kyle, you own a shirt that’s nearly identical to that._

_Yeah, but mine’s nicer. And not as scratchy._ He didn’t have much time to fight with his thoughts, though, because, before he knew it, his hips were moving without him even knowing what he was doing. Moving his arm to wrap around Oliver’s neck in an attempt to steady himself, Kyle let out another shaky breath. _God_ , that felt good.

_Mr. Scheible, don’t use the Lord’s name in vain_ \- he heard one of the priests at Xavier - maybe one of the nuns at Immaculate Heart, who knew? - lecture him from across the country. _Shut the fuck up,_ he replied, as he’d always wanted to, mentally. He could and would use the Lord’s name in whatever way he wanted, because this beautiful man whose firm thigh was pressed up between his legs was an angel, and Oliver would forgive him for his sins. 

“Fuck…” he whispered, hand moving from Oliver’s shirt shoulder to the hair at the nape of his neck, curling up there. That garnered a good response from Oliver - _good. I’m learning his secrets, now. Sensitive hair. I can fuck with that._ His hips continued to move, despite the fact that - sober - he knew he probably shouldn’t be getting himself too worked up on the subway car. Drunk, though, he had absolutely no say in what his body was doing, but he knew he liked it. He knew he liked it very, very much.

With a screech that would usually irritate his ears, the car started jerking to a stop, pressing Kyle and Oliver together even more. Muffling a groan in the shoulder of Oliver’s shirt, Kyle’s hand curled a bit tighter in Oliver’s light hair. He was as hard as he could get, his jeans tight nearly to the point of being unbearable. He honestly had no idea how far they were from Oliver’s apartment (he assumed apartment - most people in this city didn’t own brownstones like his mother did), but he figured that following the man’s lead would get him to where he wanted to go.

It seemed like they were on the same wavelength, though - he felt Oliver bowing his head to press his lips to his hair - _that feels nice…_ \- and distantly heard the sound of his voice. “One more stop…” he murmured before the train pulled away from the station and off towards Oliver’s apartment. 

_One stop. I can handle one stop. I can handle one — fuck._ He was working himself up - he knew that he was. Oliver’s thigh had been still the entire time since it had slid between Kyle’s legs; Kyle was the one moving his hips back and forth and back again. All that Kyle had to do was stop moving, and he’d be fine. _I don’t wanna stop, though._ And so it was decided, Kyle was going to keep moving his hips against Oliver’s. 

Kyle typically wasn’t this brave. Even after the two drinks he’d had, he would’ve lagged slightly behind whoever he was allowing to take him home as payment. He was a lightweight, yes, but it meant that he could use sex as a bartering tool with only one person and still get the job done. Even when he was drunk, he knew to keep his distance. Some people didn’t want to be seen with someone like Kyle - probably underage, definitely drunk, male. Kyle figured that everybody didn’t want to be seen with him ( _no attachment, no heartbreak_ ), so he would walk a pace or two behind them on the way back to wherever they were taking him.

Oliver was different - of course Oliver was different. Oliver was the one who pulled him close with an arm around Kyle’s waist. Oliver was the one who pressed his leg up between Kyle’s thighs. Oliver was the one whose long fingers were pushing through the ends of his curls, making another pleasant sensation run through his body. So Kyle could be brave that night. The alcohol helped - it helped him want this more than ever. Oliver was, yes, the best-looking man he’d ever slept with, and what Kyle had felt in his pants was enough to make him want to melt. Even with that, the alcohol made him brave enough to do this. A night he would never forget.

The train slowed to a stop again, and, _damn it, why?_ \- Oliver pulled his leg from between Kyle’s thighs. He kept his arm wrapped around Kyle’s waist, though, leading him up and onto - _where the fuck am I? Oh - there’s a sign. Right. Big ass tile art - mosaic, that’s what it’s called_ \- 137 Street / City College. 137th, then. He was at 137th. Letting Oliver lead him, Kyle’s eyes wandered, trying to get his bearings. He’d never been uptown past Columbia, so this was all new to him, but not in a bad way. Things were new in the best way possible. He had an angel leading him through a new place. _Is this heaven?_

Kyle was lost in his thoughts as Oliver led him forward, not really paying attention to street signs. While he wasn’t a fan of his cell phone (currently turned off in his pocket - _the government doesn’t need to be tracking me on a night like this_ ), worst-case scenario was that he’d turn it on after ditching Oliver’s place in order to get him back to the subway. His step was light as Oliver led him to his apartment, practically bouncing with excitement.

They walked up to an old apartment building - something so stereotypically New York, Kyle might’ve thought that he was on the set of _West Side Story_ \- and Oliver keyed them in. The stairs looked… daunting. _Jump on his back_ , a part of Kyle’s mind said. Luckily, there was a tiny voice in him that was sober enough to tell him _no, that’s a bad idea. Don’t break his face before you have a chance to fuck him. Because, for the first time since Cassie Duval, you actually want to have good sex for yourself. What’s-her-face was fine, but that wasn’t really for you, y’know? That was for her, because she was all gung-ho about losing her virginity, and then she got irrationally upset when you told her that you lost your virginity to Cassie Duval, and then she got irrationally upset when you told her that she was irrationally upset, and god, was that awkward. Book you were reading was good, though. What book was that? Oh - he’s talking again_. 

Kyle missed most of what Oliver was saying to him, but did hear the very end of it. “…six-twelve.” Kyle’s expression couldn’t be explained by much more than ‘?’, but he just nodded twice - three times - four times in a row as Oliver led him up the stairs. 

_Too many stairs. Too many fucking stairs. No wonder he has a great ass. He has to climb all of these fucking stairs every day of his life. I’d rather die_. 

_Kyle, your dorm room is on the thirteenth floor._

_Yeah, but there are elevators in the building, which means that I don’t have to walk up all of these stairs, and I’d rather die if I did._

If there wasn’t as much alcohol in him as there was, he might’ve been complaining about the number of stairs they were taking. Foolishly, Kyle got his hopes up at every landing they arrived at, but Oliver only kept walking. So, Kyle decided to count the stairs as they walked, his eyes on their feet. _Oliver has big feet. Yeah, dumbass, he has big hands, too, and a big cock, and a nice ass, and_ \- _seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty…_ He got to forty-two before he realized that they weren’t going up stairs anymore, and Oliver was pulling him down the hall. 

Kyle couldn’t help but giggle - the _fucking_ alcohol in him, he swore… “Are we there yet?” he asked, maybe a bit too loudly as he looked up at Oliver. Kyle only knew he was being loud because Oliver shushed him, told him that the neighbors were probably sleeping, that he had to keep his voice down, at least until they got into Oliver’s apartment.

So, Kyle had agreed — mostly by loudly shushing himself and then giggling again, burying his face in Oliver’s shoulder as they stopped in front of a door. 612. Oh. Oh - six-twelve. That was his apartment number. He’d been trying to tell Kyle how many flights of stairs they had to go up before Kyle had even thought to ask. Kyle watched as Oliver fumbled with his keys - it was a much more difficult process, it seemed, to get his keys in the door than it was to get his belt done up.

Luckily, Kyle didn’t have to wait much longer - he heard the sound of the keys sliding into the door, the lock clicking, and Oliver pulled him inside soon after that. Kyle was amazed by how small the apartment was. He’d never been in a living space that small - well, his dorm was smaller, but it’s because his dorm was a tiny room meant for two people to sleep, and that was it.

Oliver’s living room, kitchen, and entryway were all one room, with a table that seemed lopsided set up by the kitchen, papers spread over it. A little couch was pushed up against one wall, with a TV opposite to it and a coffee table in front of it. The most amazing part, though, was the books. Everywhere Kyle looked, there were books. More books than he’d ever seen in one place in his life, it seemed. And it felt… genuine. It didn’t feel like Oliver had books to put up a learned façade. It felt like Oliver had all of the books because he’d read them and didn’t want to get rid of them. It made him feel cozy - welcomed, even.

He didn’t have time to run his fingers over the spines of the books that were stacked up against the walls ( _he’s gonna run out of space, soon… what’s he gonna do, then? Books all over the floor, with walking paths carved out? Dunno. But it’s cozy. I like it._ ) because, before he knew it, Oliver was pulling him through a door by the couch. Bedroom, he found out soon after. 

While his eyes ran over the bedroom for about a half a second, he decided that he wasn’t really there to tour Oliver’s apartment. So, he turned to face him, hands quickly working to rid Oliver of his belt, pants, and underwear, while Oliver tugged off his button-down. _Stupid_ , he thought. _That’s an easy way to tear all of the buttons off of your shirt_.

_No, it’s smart. He doesn’t have to waste time with buttons when he can just tug the shirt off._

_You either get five seconds of your day back or twelve missing buttons. Your choice._

_Doesn’t matter. Look at that. That’s his chest. He looks so handsome… oh-_ Kyle was taken aback by the Magen David hanging from Oliver’s neck. It wasn’t that Kyle was anti-Semitic - with a name like Scheible, it was obvious that there was Judaism in Kyle’s blood (his father’s father married a Catholic woman, then his father married another Catholic woman, and that’s how a boy with the last name Scheible ended up at a Catholic school). He just hadn’t expected Oliver to be Jewish - Oliver wasn’t exactly a Jewish name, in his book. But it wasn’t bad, not at all. His fingers moved from the now-undone belt to play with the Star hanging from the golden chain, his eyes glued to it.

“Me, too…” Kyle heard himself mumbling. He’d never considered himself as much of any religion. Catholic school hadn’t worked wonders on him - he never identified as Catholic, especially not after being forced to sit through mass on a daily basis, which, quite simply, exhausted him. But he’d never identified as Jewish, either. He didn’t think he’d had enough in his blood to be considered Jewish. _Plus, religion is one way the government keeps everyone in line. There’s no point_.

Yet, here he was, mumbling to Oliver about how he was Jewish, and it couldn’t be a lie, because he hadn’t lied in three years. “Really?” Oliver asked, and Kyle slowly nodded, hand curling around the Star, mentally claiming it as his own as much as it was Oliver’s. 

They didn’t have much time to linger on religion, because, soon after, Oliver’s hand came up, gently taking Kyle’s away from the Star, and moving it down to his zipper. “C’mon,” he murmured, Oliver’s hands undoing Kyle’s jeans as he spoke, pushing them down to the floor. “Are you just going to stare? I thought I brought you back here for something else.”

_Oh - right - he did bring me back here for something else. Something fun, and… yeah, it feels nice to not be trapped in those jeans anymore_. Kyle quickly undid Oliver’s pants, tugging them and the boxers down in one quick go. Then, his hands moved to pull off his own shirt, hoping to everything that Oliver would like what he was seeing. 

It sure seemed like he did, and, when Kyle took a step back, he firmly decided that yes, he very much liked everything that he saw from Oliver. Tall, muscled, but not too muscular, with chest hair that Kyle’s drunk mind told him plenty about - _I wanna taste it._

_Kyle, that’s weird._

_I. Wanna. Taste. It._

His hands went to rest on Oliver’s chest again, pushing him back to sit on the edge of the bed. Despite the fact that Kyle was fully hard, he knew that, as soon as Oliver started working fingers into him, he had about five minutes before his… _my youth. Call it my youth. Don’t say incompetence, or anything dumb like that —_ his _youth_ ruined whatever plans it was that Oliver had for their night. So, Kyle decided to take matters into his own hands. 

Sinking to his knees in front of Oliver, Kyle looked up at him, catching his gaze and holding it while his mouth went to wrap around the head of Oliver’s cock. That seemed to delight Oliver, whether it was the heat of Kyle’s mouth or the fact that Kyle wasn’t breaking eye contact the entire time. Good.

It didn’t take long for Kyle to get into a steady pace - Oliver was big. And, while Kyle had been determined to tell Oliver that he could take it, he definitely couldn’t take all of Oliver into his mouth. Kyle liked to think that he was experienced, but he wasn’t that experienced. It didn’t seem to be a problem with Oliver, though - because everything that Kyle couldn’t reach with his mouth, he worked his hand over, working Oliver to full hardness all while resisting the desperate urge to reach between his legs and stroke himself simultaneously. 

The resistance paid off - as soon as Kyle figured that Oliver was fully hard, he pulled back, wiping his mouth so no saliva dribbled down his face. There was a groan from Oliver - a groan that said _why did you stop?_ Kyle answered that with a look that said _you know exactly why I stopped_ while climbing onto the bed.

“Hang on,” Oliver groaned, pushing himself onto the bed, as well, Kyle’s eyes roaming over his body the entire time. He watched as Oliver’s hand went into the drawer of a nightstand (also covered in books) and emerged with a small tub of lube and a condom. While Kyle was STD-free, and (he assumed that) Oliver was, too, condoms were always a good idea, despite how badly that drunk part of his mind wanted Oliver to say ‘fuck the condom’ and go in raw. 

Propping himself up against Oliver’s pillows, Kyle settled into a spot that he deemed comfortable enough while Oliver lubed up his fingers. “One at a time,” Kyle heard him say, and he nodded in agreement. One at a time was, undoubtedly, the best way to go at things, especially when dealing with things as big as Oliver’s fingers and his cock.

He watched as Oliver’s eyes moved up to him, and then heard the older man snort a laugh. “What?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Nothing,” Oliver replied, shaking his head, a smile on his face.

“What?” Kyle repeated, raising his voice to be a little bit louder.

“You-” With a snort of laughter, he interrupted himself. “You just… you look like the textbook definition of a pillow princess right now. Letting me do all the work because you know you’ll end up with fingers inside of you…” Oliver was practically doubled over in laughter, and Kyle couldn’t help but feel slightly offended. 

Taking Oliver’s wrist, he guided the older man’s fingers to his entrance, letting the lube that was still on Oliver’s index and middle fingers spread there. It was cold, but Kyle had dealt with worse. “Just stop thinking and fuck me,” Kyle whispered, his hand coming up to Oliver’s shoulder to hold him in place. 

That seemed to do the job. Oliver took another second to compose himself before Kyle felt his index finger push into him, drawing a groan from Kyle that he muffled by biting down on the inside of his cheek. Kyle was so used to muffling himself - at home, he didn’t want anyone hearing him get off, so he would quiet himself, even when he was in the shower. Oliver didn’t comment on Kyle’s obvious choice to keep his groans to himself, which Kyle was grateful for.

One finger led to two, and Kyle could already feel himself melting into Oliver’s blankets. His left hand held tight to Oliver’s shoulder, while his right slowly moved down to stroke him while he was being prepped. He didn’t want Oliver to lose the edge that Kyle had built him up to with his mouth. Oliver losing the edge meant that Kyle would be embarrassed at how quickly he came, and that wasn’t any good. 

He didn’t have much time to focus on stroking Oliver, though; when a third finger pushed into him, Kyle was practically rendered useless. His hand remained on Oliver’s shoulder, the one from his cock dropping back to the comforter to grip at it, his hips arching upwards a little bit.

Kyle could hear Oliver tutting at him, but he paid it no mind - they would both get what they wanted by the end of the night.

“I’m ready—” Kyle gasped out after Oliver began to open him with three fingers.

“No, you’re not,” Oliver shook his head so nonchalantly, Kyle wasn’t sure if it was immensely frustrating or immensely sexy. In reality, Oliver was probably right - based solely on the feeling he’d had in his jaw while attempting to suck Oliver off, three fingers probably wasn’t enough. So, instead of putting up too much of a fight, Kyle just nodded, relenting to Oliver, allowing him to continue to work him open.

A fourth finger joined the other three, and Kyle could’ve sworn his body was just a puddle, at this point. “Now—… now I’m ready,” he whispered, urging his hips upwards towards Oliver. This time, Oliver agreed. It was only another minute for Oliver to roll the condom onto his cock and lather on some more lube. Better to be over prepared than underprepared, Kyle figured as he watched.

Seeing Oliver line up was beautiful. Watching (and feeling) him push in was even better. Kyle couldn’t hold back his groan this time, but he did turn his head and muffle it in the pillow. His hand stayed curled up against Oliver’s shoulder, his free hand moving to tangle in the blond locks he’d been playing with on the train. 

God, was this perfect - Kyle couldn’t be happier. Oliver… filled him up so - so _perfectly_ , that not even Kyle’s mind was trying to have a discussion. Everything was just… _Oliver_. 

Time slipped by Kyle - his watch was behind Oliver’s head, inaccessible. It could’ve been five seconds, five minutes, five hours, but, the next thing he processed was his own cum hitting his stomach and chest. “Fuck…” he groaned out loud, his hands slowly dropping to either side of Oliver. Oliver, though, didn’t seem to be done yet. Despite how sensitive his body was getting by the second, he wrapped his leg around Oliver’s waist, digging his ankle into his back, trying to keep him there. “Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop. Keep going… _Oliver_ … fuck…” he groaned. Oliver didn’t seem to want to make fun of him, so Kyle had to assume he lasted longer than usual.

The hypersensitivity was almost too much for Kyle to take, but, sooner than Kyle could complain, he felt Oliver’s hips jerking to a stop, his cock stilling inside of him. “Fuck… that was good…” he whispered, pushing some sweat-dampened curls off of his forehead. Oliver seemed to agree nonverbally, the two of them taking deep, shuddering breaths as Oliver pulled out of him, rolling to lay down beside him, draping one arm over Kyle.

Propping his head up with his arm, Kyle watched as Oliver grabbed the green button down he’d abandoned on the floor, using it to clean up Kyle’s chest. He gave him a tight-lipped smile, knowing he couldn’t stay for long. Staying meant somebody got attached, and somebody getting attached meant eventual heartbreak. He’d gotten attached to Cassie Duval, Jenna’s friend had gotten attached to him, it was a never-ending cycle of attachment to heartbreak, and Kyle wasn’t willing to go through that again. So, he just pressed his lips to Oliver’s shoulder, the man seemingly drifting off to sleep already. That was good, in Kyle’s book. Oliver going to sleep meant Kyle leaving the apartment and never looking back.

He gave it another unknown length of time - his watch was behind his head, now - before propping himself up and sparing a glance at Oliver. Those blue eyes that he’d been entranced with all night were closed, and Kyle figured that now was as good a time as ever to get out. 

Slowly pushing himself to his feet off of the side of the bed, Kyle didn’t spare a glance to Oliver as he walked to his side to retrieve the underwear, pants, socks, and shoes that had been abandoned there. But, as he was straightening up shortly after tugging his pants on, he felt a hand wrap around his wrist. “Stay…” Oliver murmured, and Kyle felt his heart both drop in his chest and soar through the room. 

No one had ever asked him to stay before. He’d had plenty of these drunk hook-ups, and not a single one had cared when he got himself ready to leave an hour after they’d ended. _What the fuck, am I crying?_ Reaching up, Kyle felt tears running down his face. _Yep_. 

_Why the fuck am I crying?_

_Because he asked you to stay, dumbass. Nobody’s asked you to stay._

_No shit, nobody’s asked me to stay. What do I do? I - I can’t get attached. I can’t— I’m staying_.

Drunken sex, apparently, led to tears when he was asked to stay. Tears then led to his drunken brain quickly deciding that, yes, he did very much want to stay in the bed of this handsome man. So, kicking off the pants he’d just tugged up, Kyle tried to hide the fact that he was crying when he climbed back into the bed.

When Oliver’s arms wrapped around him, though, it was impossible to hide the raggedness of his breath. “Hey… hey, c’mere…” he heard Oliver whisper, feeling Oliver’s index finger pressing against his chin. “C’mere, look at me…” _Well, no avoiding him finding out that you’re crying now, Scheible._ Kyle did as he was told, scrubbing his face against the pillow before tilting his chin up to Oliver’s face, trying his hardest (and failing) to not let any more tears fall.

“Hey. You’re okay. You’re safe. C’mere…” Part of Kyle heard Oliver whispering to him as he just pulled him in against his chest, Kyle’s face nuzzling into that chest hair he’d been drunkenly thinking about what seemed like an eternity ago. “C’mere. Get some rest, Kyle… you’re okay.” Oliver’s hand began to comb through his curls, dragging his nails over Kyle’s scalp in the best way possible. He couldn’t just _not_ relax at that feeling. And, before he knew it, Kyle found himself drifting off to sleep, the smell of sweat and sex and _Oliver_ surrounding him in the most delightful way imaginable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about my inability to write smut, I used to be a lot better at it, but guess that ability's gone out the window.
> 
> The chapter title is (another) Scorsese movie! 1985's After Hours, considered by some to be Scorsese's strangest film, about one night in the life of a man in New York. It's probably a movie that Kyle's really into.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated, come talk to me about Kyle or Oliver (or Elio, bc I love him, too)!
> 
> Next time: Oliver's POV


	3. The Graduate

Tuesday. The first day of classes for his last year before earning his doctorate. Oliver loved his job - really, he did, he wouldn’t trade it for the world - but it could be incredibly exhausting. The semester hadn’t even started, and he’d gotten dozens of emails from upcoming students asking him questions that were either: A) on the syllabus, or B) would be discussed in their first class meetings about the syllabus. The sheer number of emails he’d written was inane; in all honesty, Oliver could’ve taken the same exact format to answer each of them:

_(Insert Student Name Here),_  
_Thank you for emailing me with your concerns about (insert class here). The answer to your question is on the syllabus, and, if you’re further confused, we’ll discuss everything in class on (insert Tuesday/Wednesday here). Enjoy your (insert day of replying to email here).  
_ _Oliver_

Of course, he appreciated the fact that some of his students cared enough to read over the syllabus before class even started - that was why he posted it on their class board online so early, after all - but their impatience was agonizing. Part of him wondered how Will dealt with it.

William Fanning - Will, to everyone who had ever met him - was Oliver’s closest friend since their undergraduate days at Yale. The definition of opposites attract, Will was an Irish Catholic from Chicago, who’d somehow ended up - as Will had said more times than once, “attached to Oliver’s Jewish ass.” Will had also said that Oliver would be “lost without him”, and so on and so forth, to which Oliver would reply, “Will, the only reason we know each other is because you left your keys to your dorm in my textbook after introducing yourself one morning. The only one who’d be lost is you.”

Will and Oliver had been inseparable since the incident with Will’s keys, mostly because Oliver’s freshman year roommate was unbearable, and it was nice having someone to hang out with who lived in his building. Oliver wouldn’t say that he was a model roommate freshman year - he definitely came home a little too drunk more times than once - his roommate was the type of kid who never left the dorm unless it was for classes. At the beginning of the year, Oliver had offered, more times than once. But, after about fifteen rejections, Oliver had given up. After that, whenever he came home a little too drunk, or wanted someone to hang out with while a little too drunk, he knew Will’s room was the place to be.

They’d walked in their undergraduate graduation ceremony together, with Oliver with a double major in linguistics and classics, and Will in English. At that point in their lives, they knew they’d be practically inseparable. They applied for their doctorals together at Columbia, and were both accepted. Oliver’s mother had made a joke - “if you ever see Ollie Goodman without Will Fanning, either one of them’s hurt, or they’re going to see the other.”

Now, here they both were, so young and on a track to postdoc studies. Oliver was going to complete his PhD in classics, Will in English. Will had a long-term girlfriend, whom Oliver considered to be his best friend, second only to Will himself. Her name was Sari, she was a Jewish girl from Pittsburgh, and Oliver liked to joke with her about things that Will had never went through - like the awkwardness of going to a bar mitzvah of a boy you literally only knew from Sunday school, trying to mingle with his friends from his middle school, and eventually just ending up with all of the other kids from your temple sitting around and trying to make smalltalk. 

While Will had had Sari since their days at Yale, Oliver had had an on-again, off-again girlfriend since the night of his twenty-first birthday. Her name was Rachel, she was from Rhode Island. Also a Yale student, also at the bar that Will and Sari had brought Oliver to that night. Oliver didn’t have much memory of the night, but, apparently, they’d somehow ended up exchanging phone numbers, and the rest was history. When Rachel and Oliver were good, they were great. She was a very touchy person, and what could Oliver say? He liked being touched. When they were bad, though, they were very bad. Rachel’s temper and Oliver’s cool anger never clashed well. But it had been three years, and both of their families were convinced that they’d be married by the time they were twenty-five.

Rachel was the reason he’d ended up in a bar the weekend he probably should’ve been going over his syllabi. She was angry at him because he’d been out to dinner with an old Yale friend, who just so happened to be female, without telling her. Oliver had calmly tried to explain that there was nothing going on between him and her, but Rachel hadn’t wanted to hear it. Upon finding out that he didn’t have any more beer left in his apartment, he’d begrudgingly left to get something to drink elsewhere. 

Quite frankly, he was grateful that he was out of beer Friday night, because it had led him to one of the best experiences - sexually - he’d had in a long time. Oliver wasn’t out - not anything close to it. He’d already paid his way through every semester he’d taken past high school, but he couldn’t afford to lose the love of his parents. He was certain that coming out as anything other than straight would lead him down a messy path right to that. So, within the number of people from his Connecticut hometown that still kept up with him, Oliver let on absolutely no hints that he’d been with anyone but women. 

Shaking himself out of his memories, Oliver ran a hand through his hair, glancing at himself in the mirror. By this time next year, he’d be Dr. Oliver Goodman. He guessed that that’s when he’d have to stop telling his students that they could call him Oliver. His students typically liked him, he thought. They showed up to office hours, they emailed with questions outside of office hours, he hoped that they trusted him as a mentor and confidant if need be. 

But every year, at the start of the year, Oliver felt nerves building up inside of him. He knew that he was young - young for a near-doctor, young for a professor - he would almost definitely have students who were older than he was in at least one of his classes.

Classes! Right. Tuesday-Thursdays: 8:40-9:50 AM. Overview of Greek and Roman Literature - a 4000 level course. Start out with upperclassmen, ease him into his day. Then, at 2:40-3:55 PM, he had Introduction to Linguistics. Called a 3000 level course, because of the workload, but open to any undergraduate who needed nontechnical courses - a gen ed. Fridays, he had a Classics Major Seminar on love, from 2:10-4 PM. All Classics undergraduates; they’d likely be the batch of students he heard from most often. Also on Fridays, he taught a Selections from Greek Literature course exclusively on Heraclitus (who also happened to be the topic of his dissertation, something he’d worked incredibly hard on since his arrival at Columbia, and he eagerly awaited its completion) from 5:10-7 PM. 

That’s it. Four courses. Three Classics courses, and a Linguistics course, because the Linguistics department had a professor on sabbatical this semester, and the department head asked Oliver to step in to lecture. Eighty students total in the Classics courses, and the lecture of 160 in the Linguistics course. Two hundred and forty students overall was manageable. It would be a good semester. 

That’s what he told himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, almost ready to head out the door. Turning off the lights behind him (the electricity bill could run up exponentially if he forgot to), Oliver walked out into his bedroom, from the bedroom to the kitchen, and grabbed an apple on the way out. Typically, his pre-semester meal would be a bagel, but he didn’t want to delay in getting to campus today. He knew how crazy things would get, and stopping at his favorite bagel shop would mean waiting in a line would mean possibly being late to his overview course. Holding the apple in his mouth, he slid on his shoes and locked his front door behind him, giving the door a sharp tug to make sure that it was as locked as it seemed (the deceptive thing). 

The thing about apples was that they were incredibly convenient for Oliver’s commute. It was easy to eat as he walked to the subway station to get on the 1 heading downtown. Easy to eat as he stood on the subway for the two stops it would take. (Yes, he knew he could technically walk, especially while the summer was still winding down; it was only a mile, only twenty minutes, but, for this first week, he wanted to show up on time. Plus, the high was 92° - an unusually hot start to September in New York, and Oliver knew his tendency to sweat. What a terrible first impression that would be.) The apple core was easy to throw away when he emerged from the subway station to head to Hamilton Hall for his first class. 

Everything went rather smoothly; as smooth as a first day’s class could go. He gave the usual spiel; “I’m Oliver Goodman, I’m your professor for” whatever class he happened to be teaching, then the time of the class meetings, followed by a quick joke in an attempt to make the students like him; “if you’re here right now, that means that you know that. Thanks for showing up on time.” 

He taught the rest of the class - as much teaching as going over the semester’s syllabus could entail, before dismissing them early, with a friendly reminder: “Attendance is mandatory in this class. It’s small enough that I’m gonna know your names soon, and I’ll know if you aren’t here. Look around, these are the faces of your teammates in this class. And, yes, that includes me. Show up, get your work done, come to me if you need help, email your classmates if you need help. Study groups work, people, as long as you’ve got the right information to study from. I'll see you all on Thursday.”

Simple enough. With the first class of the day off of his chest, Oliver had plenty of time to go to his office. This time in between his Overview course and the Linguistics lecture would be used for grading quizzes, essays, meetings with students who couldn’t make it to office hours (which he’d scheduled for 11 AM to 1:40 PM on Fridays). But, during syllabus week, there was little to no work to be done, aside from his work on his dissertation. 

Pulling it up on his computer, Oliver found himself staring at the screen, reading over a phrase he’d written the last time he’d looked at the dissertation. _For the early Greeks, Heidegger contends, this underlying hiddenness is not constitutive of the way beings are, not only in relation to themselves, but in relation to other entities generally. In other words, they do not construe hiddenness merely or primarily in terms of entities’ relations to human beings._ “What am I saying…?” he muttered out loud, pushing a hand through his hair. Deleting that whole paragraph, Oliver stared at the screen for another minute, before shaking his head, undoing the deletion, before marking it with a red highlight. It was just an indication for both himself and his mentor to go over it, to see if Oliver was making any sense, or if that was all just useless words that he should delete.

After that, he got lost in working on the dissertation. So lost that he almost (almost!) forgot about his Linguistics lecture. Luckily, the walk from his office in Hamilton Hall to the Northwest Corner Building wasn’t terrible. He didn’t have to run, he didn’t have to jog. He could walk at a leisurely pace and make it on time. And that’s just what he did.

Pushing into the modern lecture hall, Oliver set down his messenger’s bag on the table provided to him, hitting the spacebar on the lecture podium’s computer to get himself signed in. He didn’t have time to let his eyes scan the crowd of 160 (hopefully) eager students; in order to get in the swing of things on time, he had to pull up the syllabus to have it ready to be presented. Printing out copies of it for every individual student was a waste of time, money, and paper. If they wanted a printed copy of the syllabus, they could easily print it themselves. 

Oliver had the syllabus up and ready by the time the clock hit 2:40. When it did, he paused for a minute to let the last few students trickle in, before clearing his throat, clapping his hands together, and finally looking up at the class. 

As soon as he did, though, he was taken aback. His eyes were (nearly immediately) drawn to a boy sitting in the furthest row back (for an 160 person lecture hall, the room seemed much smaller). The boy had a pen halfway into his mouth, but that wasn’t what was taking him off-guard. What stunned Oliver into complete silence for what felt like an eternity was the head of curly hair, the face, the jawline that he felt like he couldn’t forget. 

It was him. _Him_ , _Kyle,_ him. _Oh, god…_ Gripping the podium until his knuckles went white, Oliver was faced with the reality of the situation. He’d slept with his student. He should’ve known, he should’ve asked… Oliver could feel his heart racing in his chest. He could be in so much trouble for this. _Focus, Goodman. Focus. You have a class to teach. Ignore him to the best of your ability_. 

Clearing his throat again, Oliver nodded, forcing his eyes elsewhere. “Hello, everyone. My name is Oliver Goodman, I’m your professor for this Intro to Linguistics lecture. You can call me Oliver, Professor Goodman, Goodman, whatever. I’d prefer if you didn’t call me Ollie, but that’s your prerogative.” Breathe. Do not look at Kyle. “We meet at 2:40 PM, running until 3:55 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You guys are all here, though, so — so that means you knew that. Thanks for showing up for your first day.” It earned him a few pity chuckles - he would take it. 

“Attendance isn’t mandatory in this class. There’s 160 of you guys, I’ve got no way of knowing if you show up, because, honestly, I’m not really sure how all of those apps everybody uses work, and I’m not about to sit down and try to figure it out.” Another pity laugh. Will used apps like those to help with attendance. Oliver just did it the old fashioned way in his smaller classes, and used the honor code in the larger ones. “It _is_ highly recommended, though. I’ve got a little bit of encouragement for everybody. I’m assigning five random quizzes throughout the semester. Each quiz gives you three bonus points - if you answer the questions correctly, of course. That’s up to fifteen bonus points to be counted on the final exam, for those of you who aren’t math people, so, please, don’t come to my office hours to beg for bonus points. I’m offering plenty of bonus points throughout the semester.

“Speaking of my office. My office is 617 Hamilton Hall. Technically, my office hours are from 11 AM to 1:40 PM on Fridays. But! I do not teach any classes on Mondays or Wednesdays, so, if you need any extra help and you’re available at any time on either of those days, shoot me an email, we can work out some time to meet.”

Oliver couldn’t wander far from the podium, because he had to scroll through the syllabus. He knew himself, though, and knew that, come the actual lectures in the class, he’d end up sitting on the table that had been placed at the front of the room halfway through lecture. He went over their week-by-week schedule, their assignments that would be due, and the textbook. “If any of you already bought the textbook, great, you’ve got extra material to learn from. If not, don’t buy it. I’m uploading your readings to our course module on Vergil, save your money. Buy yourself a bagel, or a new book for leisure, on me.” 

As soon as he reached the bottom of the syllabus, he nodded, tapping his fingers on the podium. “Great. That’s all I’ve got for you today. Ah, ah, ah, don’t pack up, yet. You’ve got an assignment due for me on Thursday. Don’t groan, it should be pretty simple. Go on Vergil, there’s a pretty simple assignment. If you know your name, your major, your year, why you’re taking this class, and one fact for me to know about you, it should be a pretty easy five points to start out your semester right. Alright. That’s it. You’re free, go home. I’ll see you guys Thursday afternoon. Stay cool, it’s hot out there…!”

After he’d finished, Oliver began to pack up his things, trying to breathe calmly. He could feel Kyle’s eyes on him the entire class period. How was he supposed to teach this? He couldn’t just email Dr. Eden and tell her that he couldn’t teach the class anymore, that something had come up. Maybe Kyle would have the proper sense in him to drop the class, to pick up some other class, take some other nontechnical elective. He could feel Kyle’s eyes on him even as the boy left the room. Oliver didn’t chase him down. It was up to Kyle to make his own decisions, and it was up to Oliver to make his.

He left the room about ten minutes later, after a few students came up to him to introduce themselves. He wasn’t sure if the last girl (who’d purposefully let everyone else go in front of her, despite the fact that she was the first person to approach him) was trying to flirt with him, but he tried to give off the sign that he wasn’t about to abide by that (despite the fact that he’d slept with a student in the very same class that past weekend. _Damn it, Goodman._ )

Walking back to the subway station, he tugged his phone free from his pocket, to see a text from his mother - wishing him the best of luck on his first day of the semester - as well as a couple in the group chat he had with Will and Sari - mostly Will complaining about how he’d agreed to teach an 8 AM freshman composition class, and Sari telling him to stop being a crybaby. There was also one from Rachel, another wish of good luck, as well as a request for them to have dinner together within the next few days.

He only chose to respond to Will and Sari - simply sending an _SOS. Need to talk when I get home. About to get on subway. Talk to you soon_. He knew that that would leave them hanging with a dozen questions apiece, but Oliver needed someone to talk to about this Kyle dilemma.

Upon arriving home, he saw that he was right about the questions his friends would have. He ignored all of them, just sending another simple text. _No classes for me tomorrow. You two come over to my apartment for early dinner and a movie, wine provided by me. Need to get something off of my chest_. Then, he abandoned his phone in favor of trying to distract himself with work. 

Opening his laptop, Oliver fell back onto the couch, which sagged with his weight. Looking down at the screen, he saw the first few completed personal surveys from the students from his Linguistics course, including one from a _Scheible, Kyle S._. Against what was likely best for him, Oliver immediately clicked on it.

**Name on attendance sheet/Preferred name:** _Kyle Simon Scheible. Kyle’s fine._  
**Major:** _mechanical engineering_  
**Year** **(1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, etc.):** _freshman. first._  
**Why you’re taking LING UN3101:** _nontechnical elective requirement_  
**Fun fact about yourself:** _you know me_

The way Kyle had typed “you know me” was so… nonchalant, but so haunting. Of course Oliver knew him. Oliver knew him more intimately than he knew most people. Part of him felt the wave of anxiety hitting him again, making him want to throw the laptop off of the fire escape. The other part of him felt guilt for Kyle’s sake - he needed some class to fulfill the requirement, and he clearly had his schedule well-planned, if he was taking a linguistics course in his first semester of his first year. He deserved to have a professor who didn’t… exploit him the way Oliver felt he had on Friday night.

Sighing heavily, Oliver closed his laptop, deciding that, maybe, it would be best to head to bed early. So, he made himself a quick sandwich for dinner, practically scarfing it down, before tucking himself into bed. He plugged his phone in on the nightstand, grabbing the book he’d set beside it, and turning on the lamp. He needed his hour’s worth of relaxation, or else he would never be able to fall asleep.

Even with the anxieties he’d had about Kyle, the time that he found himself entranced by _Armance_ was enough to lull him into a half-asleep state. Setting the book down, Oliver turned off the lamp, tucking himself up into his pillows and comforter. Drifting asleep, he did his very best to keep _Scheible, Kyle S._ out of his mind, knowing that he needed to be well-rested to do his job to the best of his ability, whether or not Kyle remained in the class was a factor that they’d know by the drop date. Until then, Oliver had to do his best to be as good a professor as possible, and to provide the class with the best learning experience that he could. 

It was going to be a long semester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me how Oliver can be nearing his postdoc at 24. I don't know. André Aciman wrote that in there himself. Most people aren't nearing postdoc until (about) 32. I also did a lot of research on Columbia/Columbia's course offerings/Columbia's campus for this chapter (probably more research than I've done for my own university lmao), but, since I do not go to Columbia, I can't provide 100% accuracy on anything. If you do go to Columbia and I've got something wrong, please let me know!
> 
> Title is a reference to the 1967 film of the same name, directed by Mike Nichols. There's debate as to whether The Graduate was filmed at Columbia, partially set at Columbia, or has nothing to do with Columbia at all. It also features "Sound of Silence" on its soundtrack, which is pretty much how Oliver felt when he looked up at the class.
> 
> Comments & Kudos are always appreciated! Thanks so much for reading!


	4. My Voyage to Italy

What a great start to the year. At first, Kyle had really, truly believed that classes started on Monday, and not Tuesday ( _why the fuck would classes start in the middle of the week? Whose idea was that?)_ so his first alarm went off bright and ( _too fucking_ ) early at 7:30 in the morning on Monday, in order for him to make it to that ( _fucking_ ) physical education class.

His roommate hadn’t said anything to even clue in Kyle to the fact that their classes didn’t start for another day. Kyle didn’t know the kid’s schedule, didn’t know a thing about him, and, quite frankly, didn’t really care. He could practically hear his mother’s voice in his head - _make new friends!_ \- but this kid was the last person he wanted to be friends with.

He only realized that classes didn’t start until Tuesday when he made it to Dodge to realize that there wasn’t anyone else there. Campus was practically abandoned. _Yeah, dumbass, because it’s 8:40 in the fucking morning on a Monday and school doesn’t fucking start until Tuesday._ Kyle wanted to punch the brick of the building he was nearest to, wanted to smoke something - a cigarette, a blunt, anything - wanted to do something more than vaguely self-destructive. It had been a long while since he felt like this. _Why do I feel like this?_

Tugging his phone out of his pocket, Kyle dropped to the floor, sitting with his back against the wall of the very building he’d nearly assaulted with his fists. Looking down at the device - nothing new, not by years, but it got the job done - he took a deep breath. The world seemed to fade out, all that was left was him and his phone. Tapping on _Contacts_ , Kyle subconsciously tapped the ‘O’ on the right side, the screen jumping down to the two contacts he’d had that started with ‘O’ - one that simply read _oh shit_ \- it was some girl, some girl he couldn’t remember for the life of him, a number he should probably just delete, but wasn’t going to. 

Directly beneath _oh shit_ was the one his mind had wanted him to end up at — **_oliver._**. The period he’d added was unusual - none of his other contacts had periods after their names. When did he add that period? He knew he'd edited the contact - Oliver was one for typing with capital letters, and Kyle used them as infrequently as possible - so did he add the period at the same time he'd made the contact lower cased? Or had he gone back and done that at a different point? He had no memory of that at all.

He could remember getting the number, of course - it was in the morning, after Kyle had gotten what was perhaps the best sleep of his life. His nightmares were practically nonexistent - he only woke up once, to the feeling of Oliver tugging him closer by his waist, the now-familiar scent of the man surrounding him. Comforting him. Warm. He’d slept the rest of the night through, and, in the morning, Oliver had offered him breakfast, and would not take no for an answer.

So, after some eggs, a glass of orange juice, and a look in Oliver’s eyes that typically would’ve been a little _too_ pitiful for Kyle’s desires, he found himself fully dressed and ready to leave again. But, before he was out the door, he felt Oliver’s hand wrapping around his wrist. “Hey,” Oliver had murmured, his voice soft and smooth as butter. _I could get used to hearing that voice. No! No, this was just a hookup, no feelings, no attachments._ “Give me your phone.”

And there was just something in Kyle that couldn’t disobey. Typically, Kyle practically got off on telling people in positions of authority _no_. It felt like a stimulant running through his veins, watching the light drain from their eyes, before anger flared up there. But, with Oliver, he’d just reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, turned it on, and handed it over. 

When it was handed back to him, the screen was still on a new contact - _Oliver_ \- no last name. _Prolly because he has some big ass corporate job. Fuck, that’d be sexy. Him behind a desk in a suit, blowing him under the desk, tugging him closer by the tie_ \- _what the fuck, Kyle? I thought we agreed on no attachments!_ Kyle just nodded, looked up at him, and turned the phone back off - _the less time the government has ears and eyes on me, the better_. “Thanks.”

“Call me if you need something. Seriously.” Oliver was meeting his eyes, and Kyle could tell that he was dead serious. He genuinely wanted Kyle to call him if he needed anything. _What does ‘need something’ really mean, though? Does it mean ‘need a cock to suck on’, or does it mean ‘need food and a place to stay’?_ It didn’t matter. Kyle appreciated the sentiment.

Still running on autopilot, he’d gotten as far as tapping on the contact, then the _messages_ button, then typing out some whole thing.

_hahahaha funny story so i just woke_  
_up for classes and turns out we_  
 _don’t start til tuesday i have no_  
 _fucking idea WHAT you do as a job_  
 _but i’m ASSUMING you work at_  
 _some law firm or wall street or_  
 _stocks or whatever which MEANS_  
 _you SHOULD BE awake so_

Kyle deleted all of that. Why was he typing in strange caps? He tried again.

_wyd??_

No. Too childish. Too _I’m definitely a teenager and definitely looking for sex right now_. Again.

_scheible. my last name. kyle  
scheible. _

No. _No, no, no, this is all wrong. Fuck! Fucking fuck!_ Kyle hit his head against the wall behind him before immediately regretting his decision, biting on the inside of his cheek. Closing out the would-be thread with Oliver, he stayed in the _Messages_ app, and scrolled up to the most recent text - his group chat with L’enfance Nue. 

_lmaooo woke up buttfuck early this_  
_morning and walked to class to find_  
 _out that classes start tomorrow pls_  
 _kill me thx_

The group chat was silent for about a minute and a half before he got a reply. Adam, their lead singer, replied.

Kyle dude it’s 6:20 in the   
morning here we are ALL still  
asleep I promise you

Kyle groaned - _of course there’s the time difference, dumbass. You were consistently awake until 4 in the morning when you first moved here_. 

Though he was on the other side of the country, L’enfance Nue still kept in touch. They’d been Kyle’s closest friends, his confidants, all throughout high school. Adam, a light sleeper, was the first person to really realize that he still had a child’s nightmares even as a grown adult. _Kyle Simon, you’re anything but a grown adult._

_I can buy cigarettes and porn if I wanted to, so I’m as grown as I’ll ever be._

_You can’t buy alcohol._

_Sure I can._

_Not without your fake._

_Touché._

Shawn, their drummer, was a pretty good plug. If Kyle ever needed weed, and he didn’t particularly want to blow somebody for it, Shawn was the person he’d go to, and they’d end up high in the park giggling at each other like children.

And Jonah. Jonah had been Kyle’s best friend since childhood. Jonah was the first person that Kyle had told about his being anything but completely straight - Kyle didn’t like to define it. He just said he’d sleep with girls, he’d sleep with guys, he didn’t really care. As long as it was clear as to what he was supposed to be doing, he’d do it. No labels. _Labels are a tool of the government_. Jonah had shrugged it off, clapped him on the shoulder, and said _cool, man_. 

When his mother had forced him (yes, forced, despite the fact that he already knew he was going to Columbia — _I thought I’d be able to come home for the holidays. Fuck Sacramento and all that it stands for, but I have cool friends_ ) to move to New York, he’d wanted to scream. Moving to New York meant not being able to come home and see Adam and Shawn and Jonah and Jonah’s dog Bowie over vacations ( _I never claimed to be a dog person, but Bowie’s chill_ ). 

Instead of screaming, Kyle had just gone out, gotten drunk, fucked the first person who he’d matched with on Tinder, and decided that that was enough teenage rebellion for the night about halfway through a post-coital blunt. 

His thoughts were disturbed by another text - Jonah, this time.

** Surprise I’m awake. Class starts at **   
**8\. Remind me why I have to take**   
**stats**

Kyle shot back.

_fuck you i was literally heading to_  
_physical education i’d much rather_  
 _be in stats_

Yeah but you’re a mech engineering  
major

_wow really???? didn’t realize that_  
_that’s what i’m in school for!!!! thanks_  
 _adam i appreciate the reminder_

After that, Kyle abandoned his phone - turned it back off, slid it back into his pocket, and decided that he could at least try to get another hour or so of sleep. Heading back to his dorm, Kyle didn’t want to admit defeat to his roommate, so he slumped down in one of the chairs in the lobby, closing his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest.

Sleep didn’t come to him, because of course it didn’t. _How the fuck do I waste today, then?_

_Be productive. Walk your classes._

_Fine, deal. Whatever._

That’s how Kyle found himself making the walk to campus for the second time that day. He decided that there had to be some way to pass the time, and that’s how he found himself on his phone again, ignoring the texts from all three members of his band who were not him, and opening Grindr. Sex. Sex was always a good way to pass the time. A profile caught his eye - a blond kid, hair more wavy than curly, hair darker than Oliver’s - _hair darker than Oliver’s? What the fuck? Let him go_. He and the boy - Paolo, as his profile said - sent a few messages back and forth.

Paolo was awake because he didn’t want to miss classes the next morning. He was Italian, and still getting used to the time difference. He had a single person room, because he’d gotten lucky. And, sure, he was down for something right now.

That’s how Kyle ended up laying in the Italian boy’s bed, his head propped up on his arm, folded on top of one of the luxurious pillows, not bothering to put on clothing, and passing a cigarette back and forth. Paolo had originally offered him one from a carton he’d bought in Italy, which Kyle had quickly turned down - _I hate that shit_. Industrially produced cigarettes, even Italian ones, were enough to make Kyle wary. He’d climbed out of bed, dug one of his hand-rolled cigarettes from his backpack, and offered to share it with Paolo, after Paolo told him that he was ‘pretty positive’ that the smoke detector in his room didn’t work. He’d smoked at least three cigarettes since move-in, and it hadn’t gone off yet.

It was a nice afternoon turned evening turned night. After another cigarette, Paolo had given Kyle his American phone number, telling him that he’d like to ‘do this again sometime’. Kyle had just nodded and accepted the number, despite knowing that he’d probably never see Paolo again. 

Imagine Kyle’s surprise when he walked into his Intro to Linguistics course the next day and found Paolo sitting at the back of the room. His father was a linguistics professor in Italy, he explained. This course would be an easy A for him. Kyle, always glad to get all the help he could get, took the seat besides Paolo in the back of the lecture hall.

The professor hadn’t showed up, yet, so he found himself sucking on his pen, glancing down at his notebook - empty, of course - and over at Paolo, who was trying to have conversation with him about class. He nodded along, mostly for Paolo’s sake, as he told him a story about his hometown — _something with a B, or a C, or one of those ‘beginning of the alphabet letters’. Definitely not Rome. Smaller. Dunno. Not really listening._

Paolo went quiet soon later, though, and Kyle took that time to lean back in his seat, the pen still halfway in his mouth, sucking at it nonchalantly. _That thing can burst and stain your entire mouth blue._

_Yeah, I don’t really give a fuck if I stain my mouth blue._

_You’d give a fuck once you realized that it’s not gonna come off easily. Would you like to be called Bluetooth for the rest of your college experience?_

_The pen’s not gonna fuckin burst it’s fi—_ Kyle’s thoughts were cut off as soon as he heard the voice speaking to them. _Shit. Shit shit shit fucking shit that’s not_ — he looked up. _Fuck me…_

Of course. Of _fucking_ course Oliver had to be his professor. Oliver Goodman. _You can call me whatever_ , Oliver Goodman - _Professor_ Oliver Goodman - told them, and Kyle’s destructive thoughts immediately spoke up again. 

_Yeah, I almost called you Daddy on Saturday. Fuck!_

What the fuck was he supposed to do? Kyle stared at Oliver the entire time, nonverbally begging for him to even look in his direction, but Oliver never did. _Why are you so fucking desperate, Kyle? That’s weird as fuck_. Not once, not a single time in their (admittedly short) class period as Oliver went over the syllabus did he look up at Kyle. 

He could feel himself biting down more and more on the pen until he had to take it out of his mouth, because he knew it would burst otherwise.  
F U C K ended up being written across the first page of his notebook, which he immediately tore up and crumpled in his hand, causing Paolo to give him a strange look. Kyle didn’t look over at him, though. He was tense. Too tense. _What the fuck am I doing?_

When Oliver dismissed them with an assignment on their first day ( _even though it’s easy, it’s still fucking homework_ ), Paolo tapped Kyle’s shoulder. “Do you want to come back to mine? Have a few drinks, maybe watch a film?” And Kyle couldn’t just say no - he was done with classes for the day. 

Getting back to Paolo’s was the easy part. Accepting the wine he was handed was easy, too, despite his vehement distaste for wine. (Paolo was also eighteen, but his parents had bought him a few bottles of good wine before returning to Italy. _Something about the legality there, and he could use cultural misunderstanding if he was caught. Dunno_.) The hard part came when Kyle opened his laptop to submit the assignment Oliver had given them. 

Typing _you know me_ took less than a second. And, without thinking it over, he hit submit. Immediately regretting his choice, he buried his face in Paolo’s lap, practically purring at the feeling of slender fingers in his hair, nails dragging over his scalp. “Lemme suck you off,” Kyle heard himself saying. “Celebrate your first day of classes in America,” he said. _Need to distract myself from Oliver_ , he thought. 

Paolo graciously accepted the offer, and Kyle made quick work of taking his cock into his mouth, lightly sucking, all while one thought nagged at the back of his head: _What the fuck am I supposed to do…?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Voyage to Italy - Scorsese, yet again, a 1999 documentary.
> 
> Kyle's got some Issues to work out, doesn't he? What do you guys think about Paolo? How long is Kyle going to keep him around?
> 
> Sorry about the shorter chapter! I just wanted to get some words out from Kyle's perspective. Hope you enjoyed!


	5. Stand By Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a forewarning, Oliver reflects on his father's homophobia about a quarter of the way into the chapter.

What a day it had been so far. Stressed wasn’t even the start to describe what Oliver was feeling - uneasy might be a better way to begin. Oliver would never say that he was anxious - he didn’t have any diagnosed form of anxiety, and it felt wrong to those who did to say that he was anxious. Uneasy, then, he decided. He was feeling more than uneasy.

What was he supposed to do about this whole Kyle situation? He knew he’d gotten himself into the mess that he was in - he should’ve had some common sense, he should’ve asked why Kyle was in a bar so close to Columbia’s campus, he should’ve asked where he went to school - he should’ve been more thorough.

Almost as soon as he’d seen Kyle’s completed assignment (if one could even call the minuscule, five-point homework an assignment), he found himself on Columbia’s website, reading the Administrative Code of Conduct. 

_Complaints against Columbia employees (staff and faculty) and third parties engaged in University business, for gender-based misconduct, including sexual assault, sexual harassment, gender-based harassment, stalking, domestic violence, dating violence and sexual exploitation are processed through the Office of Equal Opportunity and Affirmative Action._

The part about _sexual exploitation_ is what worried him. That thought led him to Columbia’s Student Code of Conduct, which told him even more to worry him. There were dozens of examples of dozens of different types of sexual misconduct, and it all made his head spin. 

Even through all of this - Oliver wasn’t worried about himself. Yes, if Kyle decided that he wanted to report him to anyone - an advisor, another professor, hell, even a fellow student - Oliver knew that he could lose his job, lose his opportunity to complete his upper-level education at the university that he wanted to spend the rest of his life teaching for.

But all of that didn’t matter.

What mattered was Kyle’s wellbeing. Kyle was young - probably too young for Oliver to have slept with. Alcohol was no excuse. Neither was the fact that they were both clearly very into each other. He had slept with his student, and he’d have to face some repercussions for it. 

The difficulties came when he tried to think about what he’d do about this. He knew he wanted to speak to Kyle again - he’d given Kyle his phone number, but Kyle hadn’t texted him, so he was left without one in return. That meant that, if Oliver wanted to talk over the phone or through text, he’d have to wait for Kyle to make contact. 

Pros to waiting for Kyle to make contact: there was no pressure from Oliver’s end, Kyle could do so whenever he felt like it. Cons to waiting for Kyle to make contact: Oliver was left in the dark, and Kyle didn’t seem like the type to be on his phone very often.

Rubbing at his eyes with his index finger and his thumb, Oliver slowly closed his laptop. He ran through his other options: 

Option 1: E-mail Kyle asking him to come to office hours. No; that would be unusual for Oliver - he’d never specifically asked a student to come to office hours before, and he knew that universities’ tech departments weren’t exactly reliable when it came to keeping secrets shared through email. And how frequently did Kyle check his Columbia email, anyways? Did Kyle even know his UNI? 

_Of course Kyle knows his UNI. He’s in classes, isn’t he? That’s kind of vital to know._

Option 2: Pull Kyle aside after class. That would be difficult - he’d noticed Kyle leaving the room with a boy after their first meeting — a blond boy, a little bit shorter than Kyle, with messy hair and a perfect smile. A roommate, maybe? He seemed like the kind of boy Kyle could fall for.

_What are you saying, Oliver? You don’t know Kyle, no matter how much that stupid heart of yours wants you to know him_. 

It was looking like he’d have to go with the second option. He’d just need an excuse to pull Kyle, though. If Kyle had uploaded a picture of himself to his Vergil account, that would be a reason to know his face and his name, and he could say that the “brash” way he’d submitted his first assignment was enough of an excuse. But Kyle hadn’t really been brash, had he? It seemed to Oliver that Kyle was just as shell-shocked as Oliver was.

But what if Kyle didn’t have a picture associated with his Vergil account? Swearing to himself, Oliver placed his head in his palms, pushing his fingers through his hair. How was he supposed to know Kyle’s face and be able to associate it with his name? 

Suddenly, an idea popped into his head. He could practically hear Sari’s voice telling him not to do this - that it was absolutely ridiculous, and it could only lead to problems with the grading scale he’d already set up and— 

Cutting off the Sari in his mind, Oliver decided that his mind was made up. Pulling open his laptop again, Oliver navigated to his LING UN3101 course page. Once there, he created a new discussion board. Then, he began to type. 

_Hello, LING UN3010 students! I hope you enjoyed our first lecture. This is a place for everyone to stop by and introduce themselves (and share a picture, so we can all put names and faces together). I think this is a great way to meet your classmates. Take advantage of this - studying together can be effective, if you have the right material to study from. So get to know your classmates, and let me get to know you to the fullest extent possible!_  
_Extra incentive: for all who introduce themselves, I’ll add one bonus point to your final exam. I’ll see you all in class on Thursday.  
_ _-Oliver_

Oliver could practically see Sari rolling her eyes at him. This was an 160-person lecture. Of course he wasn’t going to get to know every student’s name and face, no matter how personable Oliver thought he was, and no matter how good with faces he knew he was. And what if Kyle didn’t respond? What then?

He’d worry about that later, he decided. But what else could he do? Will and Sari were coming over the next day. Was he supposed to keep this internalized for the rest of the day and all of tomorrow? Calling Rachel wasn’t an option - he didn’t particularly want to see her flare up with anger at the thought of Oliver sleeping with anyone who wasn’t her, let alone a boy, let alone a boy who so happened to be his student.

Calling his mother wasn’t an option, either. While she was more… forgiving than he knew his father would be on the case of having a… Oliver’s thoughts slowed to a stop. Gay? No - he wasn’t gay. He enjoyed women. He enjoyed sex with women. He enjoyed the looks of women. But he wasn’t straight, either. Bisexual? That didn’t feel quite right, either. He decided not to label it and move on.

His father wouldn’t forgive him. He’d be more on his own than he currently is. No more calls checking up on him, no more Hanukkah gifts at the end of the year, no more dorky cards and bagels on his birthday when they drove in from Westport to celebrate. No more hugs and kisses from his mother and handshakes from his father and promises that they’d come back soon. Just… emptiness.

So he couldn’t tell them. He absolutely could not tell his mother, because, if he told his mother, he’d never hear from either of his parents again. 

He wasn’t about to vent his feelings to the void that was the internet, either - Oliver wasn’t much of a social media person, so he wouldn’t even know where to start with that. That meant that he’d have to deal with his Kyle problems on his own, at least until tomorrow.

Standing up from the table, Oliver abandoned his laptop, deciding that the best thing he could do right then was take a run. Glancing at the time on the microwave, he decided that there was enough time before rush hour for him to make it to St. Nicholas Park without running directly into people or having to slow his pace to accommodate others. 

It didn’t take Oliver long to change into something far less suitable for work and far more suitable for running. Leaving his phone behind, Oliver locked the door to his apartment behind him before taking off. 

Running was always a good way for Oliver to clear his head. He had never been fast enough to be on the track team in high school - though he didn’t particularly want to be; he thought that running competitively would take away the joy that he experienced from running.

He’d never been an athlete, contrary to popular belief among his peers at Yale. Oliver had been lanky for his first few years of high school, not fully grown into his excessively large body, yet. And, by the time he filled out his junior year, and teams at Staples had actively tried to recruit him. Football, soccer, water polo, basketball, skiing, baseball, volleyball, sailing - they’d all sent their coaches or their players to speak to him between classes, after school, before school, whenever they could find him. And he’d turned every single one down.

Oliver knew that athletics would boost his college applications, but he’d already spent most of his time outside of school tutoring others to prepare for the SAT. He’d thought that that was enough to get him into the Ivy League - and that, along with his GPA of 4.32 and an SAT score of 2350 - had gotten him into Dartmouth, Cornell, and Yale, with Oliver deciding to attend Yale to be a little closer to home (not that any of the Ivies were particularly far from home, but still). 

He distracted himself with thoughts of the past, as opposed to thoughts of the future, as he ran, building up a sweat in no time, with thanks to the 90 degree weather in New York in September. Quite frankly, Oliver couldn’t believe it. He needed summer to break - he thought he thrived when fall arrived, and he could wear his favorite sweaters. But, with this weather, it was difficult to bring himself to do up every single button on his shirts, because he knew he could very easily end up sweating through them. 

The too-warm weather also cut out time that Oliver valued - time to sit on the South Field or the Steps, time to soak up the sun before New York’s biting winters came to campus. Oliver frequently worked on his dissertation outside - it’s where he felt he did his best work, surrounded by nature, feeling the occasional breeze against his skin, his shoes kicked off and toes curled in the grass. 

Now, though? It was hot enough that Oliver was sweating within the first five minutes of his run, and regretting his choice in the first half an hour. After pausing in the middle of St. Nicholas Park to catch his breath, he realized that he couldn’t spend much more time outside without feeling too exhausted to do any work on anything - putting in grades on assignments, working on his dissertation, do anything but lay in bed and read. 

Once he’d caught his breath, Oliver turned on his heel to head back to his apartment. Maybe this Kyle thing would all fade out. Maybe he’d let himself forget about the night they’d had together before the start of the semester, and Kyle could just be his student, and Rachel could be his girlfriend, and everything would end up alright. Despite how optimistic that thought was, Oliver knew that it wasn’t possible. Things didn’t work out that easily in real life, especially when people felt the way Oliver felt for Kyle.

What did Oliver feel for Kyle, anyways? It was so strange - it couldn’t be love; no one fell in love after one sexual experience — one drunken sexual experience, and one morning after. Was it affection? Maybe. He could remember the way Kyle had silently sobbed after Oliver had told him to stay.

Why had Kyle sobbed? It seemed so strange, now that Oliver thought about it. How many times had Kyle been with people that kicked him out of their bed as soon as the night was over? Kyle was young - very young - and it didn’t seem, to Oliver, like Kyle could have that much experience with sleeping with people. (He wouldn’t mention this out loud, but Kyle had finished pretty quickly - he didn’t have any sort of stamina built up.)

Thoughts like these occupied Oliver’s mind until he was unlocking his apartment door and stepping inside, immediately turning the air conditioning back on. Turning it off saved him money when it came to his electric bill, but it meant coming back to an apartment that was far too hot. 

While thinking about how he wasn’t born to be in ninety degree weather (especially in September), Oliver passed by his computer. Hitting the space bar twice to wake it up, he refreshed his Vergil page to see that people had already begun posting to the discussion board he’d set up before his run. Too sweaty to sit, Oliver gave the board a perfunctory glance, just to satiate an itch that was gnawing in his stomach. 

There were dozens of people smiling back at him - all his students, all introductory posts, but not one picture of Kyle. He did see the boy who Kyle walked out with, though - a _Paolo Folliero_ , who said that he was a first-year student from Curno, Italy, who was at Columbia studying psychology, and he said that his father was a professor of linguistics in Bergamo. Oliver wanted to cringe - it likely meant that this Professor (Dr.?) Folliero had far more linguistic experience than Oliver himself did, no matter how much independent study Oliver had done. He had to hope for the best when it came to Paolo. 

Oliver was confident in his syllabus and his ability to teach the syllabus from the textbook, and the head of the department was confident in him, because she’d asked him to lead the class, so he had to remain confident, no matter the fact that there was a boy who his entire class would be clamoring over for help when it came exam-time. Kyle just so happened to be the lucky one to meet this boy before everyone else. There was no mention of taking the class with a roommate, so Oliver’s curiosity about how the two knew each other was piqued again. 

He knew he couldn’t linger on the laptop for too long, though - he was still incredibly sweaty from his run, and a shower was his first priority. Stripping his sweaty clothes as he made his way to the bathroom, Oliver let himself take a cool shower once he was there. He tried to clean away the thoughts of Kyle and the sweat matted to his skin and hair simultaneously, closing his eyes and appreciating the feeling of the cool water and the air conditioning finally kicking in as he stepped out.

Then, he decided to make himself something quick and easy for dinner - pasta wouldn’t take him more than fifteen minutes - before getting to work on grading things. He started by putting in the points for everyone who had submitted the first assignment already. A little more than a quarter were already in, and he figured that that quarter would hit at least half by the end of the day. 

After that, he returned to the discussion board and actually decided to try to get to know a few faces. It would be worth it, when a student came to his office hours asking for help and he could glance at them and know their names. After face after face, Oliver was almost bored enough to close out the tab, when he saw a pair of familiar green eyes looking back at him. He was floored, the breath almost punched from his lungs. It looked like a picture that a friend of his took - him sitting at a table, a book that was incredibly large in front of him, Kyle in a forest green button-down and a navy blue jacket. 

His caption was simple. _kyle scheible. sacramento, california. mechanical engineering major. first-year. needed a nontechnical elective._ Sacramento, Oliver pondered. He’d never been to the West Coast - he had no way to even begin to imagine what Sacramento looked like. Also, most professors would probably find it annoying that Kyle chose to type without any capital letters, and Oliver knew for a fact that he’d lose points along the way from some - but he wasn’t going to deduct points for something so simple. When it came to essays, he was going to have to, but, until then, he’d let it slide. 

Forcing himself to tear his eyes from the picture, he began to enter the bonus points into his grading system all while eating the pasta he’d made himself, which had gotten colder than he would’ve liked. After all was said and done, and he’d cleaned the pot and bowl he’d used for his pasta, he retired to his bed for the night, trying to distract himself from the thought of Kyle once again with a book until he was lulled to sleep by the sound of construction and New York traffic outside of his window.

The next day was even more difficult to get through. Not having any classes on Wednesdays would typically lead him to go to campus anyways to get some work done, but the fact that the weather app on his phone told him that it was 94 degrees outside - _feels like 101_ \- it read, made him decide to stay in the cool air conditioning in his apartment. He did have to go out to buy a bottle of wine for Will and Sari, but that was a quick run across the street, as opposed to the mile to campus. 

The rest of the day was spent reading over the assignments that had been submitted to him, putting in grades for the aforementioned assignments, glancing over the discussion board, putting in the bonus points for the discussion board, and trying not to get trapped by Kyle’s green eyes again. While the day seemed to drag on endlessly, Will and Sari arrived as expected. 

Oliver had just ordered takeout Chinese food from their favorite place nearby - it wasn’t as good as the food they got in Chinatown, but that required a subway trip that Oliver didn’t particularly want to take that day - so, when Will and Sari arrived, the food wasn’t there quite yet. 

“Hey,” he greeted them after they’d knocked at his door - Will had known the door code for years, which was a plus for Oliver; Will helped him get home when he was too drunk to know where home was, on nights after particularly bad fights with Rachel. 

They both returned the greeting, Sari offering him a hug and Will patting him on the back as they walked in, Oliver closing and locking the door behind them. He knew he was being uncharacteristically quiet - mostly because he had absolutely no idea where to begin when it came to telling them about Kyle. He nodded towards his couch as he went to retrieve the wine bottle he’d bought as well as three glasses. Will and Sari were making small talk, asking about the start of his semester, about his classes so far, about his dissertation - they were both very talkative people, and, normally, Oliver found that comforting. Now, though? It was just enough to make his head spin.

Once he’d gotten the wine, he set their glasses down on the coffee table in front of Will and Sari, pouring a glass for himself and a glass for each of them. “So…” he started, sitting down on the floor across from the couch, crossing his legs. _God, this is hard._ These people had been his best friends for years. They would be his best friends for life. So why was telling them this important thing so difficult?

Clearing his throat, Oliver picked up his wine glass, taking a long sip from it, before setting it down, letting the warmth of the alcohol run through him. It wasn’t very strong - that was kind of the point; if he wanted them drunk, he could be pouring them shots at that moment. He just needed them to listen. 

“Okay. Look. You guys are here because I need to get something off of my shoulders. And it’s heavy. It’s — a lot. Okay? It’s you guys, because I trust you guys, and this is taking a lot of trust for me to say out loud.” Which was true. He’d never said that he was anything but straight to anyone but himself in the mirror in his sophomore year of high school, when he realized that he’d had a crush on both leads in his school’s production of _Grease_. 

After he was given affirmative nods, Oliver nodded in return, pushing his hands through his hair. “You good, man?” he heard Will ask, and it took everything inside of him to keep from breaking down right then. Because, no, he was very much not good. 

“I’m — god…” he muttered, leaning back against his hands, propped up behind him. “Okay. Okay, here goes…” What poor dramatic timing it would be if the Chinese delivery buzzed the door right then, he thought, but, luckily, they were left in silence, and, unluckily, Oliver had to go on with what he had to say.

“I… okay - before I say anything, Rachel and I are on a break. I want you to know that we’re not currently seeing each other, it’s just me. Okay. Um. We got in a fight, Saturday night - Rachel and I. And… I went out to a bar. I got a beer or two in me, and then… I brought a boy home…” he paused, letting the fact that he’d just said _boy_ sink in for Will and Sari. 

Sari seemed to accept it a lot faster - her body language was still open, but Will had stiffened up a little bit. That made Oliver more nervous than he’d like to admit. Digging his nails into the cold floor, Oliver took another deep breath. He had to go on. He couldn’t stop here.

  
“Is that all…?” Sari asked - there was the poor timing that Oliver was certain was coming soon. 

“No. No, that’s… that’s not it.” Pressing one hand to his face, Oliver pinched at the bridge of his nose, trying to focus himself, trying to bring himself to say the most damning part of his story.

“I… okay. Okay, you guys have to—” what? Still be my friend? Oliver couldn’t really blame them if they decided to cut all ties with him after this. “Just… fuck. Okay. The boy I brought home… his name is Kyle. He’s… really sweet, a good kid-” _why did you just say kid, Oliver…!?_ “He’s eighteen,” he quickly clarified, before realizing how bad that sounded. Six years was a lot to anyone who wasn’t drunk. Taking another long sip of the wine, Oliver wanted to scream. 

“And he’s in my Intro to Linguistics lecture…” There it was. The hardest part to admit. It wasn’t hard to come out to his friends - he probably would’ve done that if it were any other male he’d slept with, despite past evidence that he hadn’t told them when he’d slept with other men before. It was hard to say that he’d slept with a boy who he now had to assume a role of authority over. A student, a kid whose GPA he was going to be affecting this semester. 

“Shit…” he heard Will swear. Forcing himself to slowly raise his gaze to his friends on his couch, Oliver felt his stomach twisting in knots. He wanted to throw up, wanted to lay down and pretend like all of this never happened. If he hadn’t found himself pining over Kyle for the rest of the weekend, he probably would be pretending like it never happened. Unfortunately, here he was, stuck in this loop of horrible. 

“Ollie…” Sari was one of two people - his mother being the second - that he allowed to call him Ollie. He hated the nickname, hated how childish it sounded, but, when Sari called him such, it made him just want to melt into a hug. She was much smaller than he was - likely about a foot smaller than he was - but he knew from past experience that he could make himself small enough to be held by her. “What’re you going to do…?” 

Her soft tone made him want to break. “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice wavering, his thumbs pressing into his eyes for a moment. “I really don’t know. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable in class, but I can’t forget him, he’s just- this is just…” he didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t know, Sari. I really don’t…”

And that’s how he ended up with a petite Jewish girl tucking him close to her body, his face pressed into her shoulder, trying his very best not to cry. He wasn’t going to cry about Kyle. He wasn’t. No matter how detached from his emotions Oliver liked to pretend to be, he was really just the opposite - overly sensitive. A girl he’d once dated told him that he really was the epitome of a Pisces.He hadn’t known what that meant until later, but, now, that really felt true. 

The rest of the night went by in a blur, to Oliver. The food arrived - Will got it from the door. Oliver didn’t leave Sari’s arms, even as they watched an eighties movie that he knew he’d seen a thousand times before, and, when they left, he sat, numb, on the floor for another hour and a half. He could just fall asleep there, he thought, and, if he didn’t have classes the next day, he definitely would have.

Forcing himself to his feet, Oliver decided that he’d clean up the living room the next day, after classes. Now, all he wanted to do was go to bed. He was emotionally drained, exhausted, and feeling like his stomach was in knots. Just as he plugged in his phone, he noticed a text from Sari. 

** You’ll figure this out, Ollie. You  
always do. **

It was comforting, but he didn’t have the energy to reply. He just let himself fall into bed, the day’s clothing still on, and tried to embrace the feeling of being asleep, of not having to think about anything aside from rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stand By Me - 1986, Reiner. I didn't use the title of the film for the film's plot - more that Oliver needs Will and Sari by him through this Mess.
> 
> Oliver mentions Kyle's UNI - it's Columbia's University Network Identification, and how students/faculty access everything from their emails to their grades, scheduling, etc. According to Columbia's website, "The University Network ID (UNI) is a unique identifier assigned to each University student, faculty, researcher, or administrator, consisting of your initials and arbitrary numbers". You'll see these in later chapters, but Oliver's UNI is ohg327 and Kyle's is kss2185. Any guesses on Oliver's middle name? Hint: he's very embarrassed by it ;)
> 
> Oliver's discussion board idea came from my Sci-Fi and Fantasy English prof. While he didn't offer bonus points ( :-(, though I highly doubt he posted it to connect with a student like Oliver is ) it was a good way for me to put faces and names together.
> 
> I also genuinely don't know how Vergil works. I'm assuming it works the same way (or very similarly) to the two websites I've had to use for my two universities - showing classes, assignments for each class, offering discussion boards, grades, syllabi, etc. If there are any Columbia students reading, I'd love to know how Vergil works so I get things right! If not, please don't take my word as fact on how Vergil works.
> 
> I mention Westport and Staples - Westport, Connecticut is Oliver's hometown! They boast the number one public high school in CT (Staples High School); a good place for Oliver's education excellence to begin.
> 
> Thanks for reading this chapter! Comments and kudos are appreciated, as always!


	6. He Says...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally talk.

_Panic._

_What a great idea, thanks, mind. I really fucking appreciate it._

Wednesday was about as much of a shit show as Kyle could’ve imagined it to be. He still couldn’t believe the fact that he had to take physical education. He was almost nineteen ( _what the fuck do you consider almost, two months? It’s over two months. And nineteen is such a boring year. What can you do at nineteen that you couldn’t do at eighteen? Nothing._ ) and still taking physical education classes like he was at Xavier.

_Xavier. I thought we mentally agreed to never think about that place again._

_Well, here we are, thinking about it._

Kyle would never admit to missing Sacramento. He’d hated every second that he lived there. Two hours to San Francisco, six to Los Angeles, and exactly nothing to do but play in his band and smoke cigarettes and read out the entire library. _And have sex, and do drugs, and-_

_Remember that time that Jonah mentioned that you were lucky you aren’t addicted to meth?_

_I don’t want to do meth…! I wouldn’t even know how to do meth. Or where to get meth. And the only reason meth came up was because he told you that you were - quote - too sad to do cocaine. I don’t want to do meth. And, no, I don’t want to snort coke, either. I’m perfectly happy with the weed that I smoke when my fucking roommate decides that he can actually leave our room at night, and-_

_It’s only been a week, Kyle. Calm the fuck down._

The good night’s rest he’d attempted to have Tuesday night was disturbed with thoughts of Oliver - then Paolo - then Oliver (Professor Goodman?) again. 

Kyle hated sleeping. Sleeping typically meant nightmares. Nightmares meant restlessness, and restlessness meant smoking a cigarette or a joint. Unfortunately, dorm life didn’t exactly lend itself to smoking of any kind, considering the fact that the windows in his dorm didn’t open - safety risks, and all. 

He should’ve been happy that he was having wet dreams over nightmares. But wet dreams? Really? What was he, sixteen? Who legitimately had wet dreams? Kyle wished that he was one of those people who could sleep without dreaming. _Those motherfuckers live in luxury._ But, no. Kyle had to dream. Had to dream about his professor, then this boy who… this boy that… Kyle’s mind didn’t even know where to start, when it came to Paolo.

Knowing that he probably shouldn’t have entrenched himself into (multiple) sexual relationships so soon into the school year, Kyle didn’t regret his choices - it just made things a little bit harder to navigate. And Kyle was no stranger to navigating difficult situations - he’d been doing just that since he was young.

Cassie Duval was a difficult situation. God, the way he’d felt about her… Kyle couldn’t describe it to this day. He wouldn’t say that he was in love with Cassie Duval, but he’d been more…

_Kyle Simon, you were obsessed with that girl. You only got to sleep with her out of pure luck._

_I wouldn’t say luck…_

_I would. She chose you because you were the best-looking guy at that party, because what’s-his-face was getting surgery because he broke his knee or whatever in that football game_.

_Yeah, well, fuck off._

His dad was a difficult situation. There was never much love between Kyle and his father - Kyle had always assumed that he was a result of failed natural family planning. His older sister was clearly wanted - clearly loved, doted on, admired, even. Kyle had always felt like he was… extra. Useless. An unwanted son. 

_Wow, Scheible, way to get depressing_.

_Yeah, well, that’s how it is, so. You wanna argue otherwise? …yeah, didn’t think so_.

So was that what had drawn him to Oliver? Oliver looked nothing like his father - Oliver looked like the son his mother may have wanted. Blond hair, blue eyes - Oliver could likely be Kyle’s sister’s older brother. 

Kyle looked nothing like his sister - Emily. Emily was petite (the only way she differed from Oliver), with blond hair and blue-green eyes, a pure white, perfectly straight smile - she was in every way the prom queen she’d been voted in her time at Immaculate Heart, and a near-spitting image of their mother. Seeing her stand beside Oliver, it wouldn’t be so far off to assume that Emily and Oliver were siblings.

So was that what Oliver was? Some weird form of an Oedipus complex? Kyle would have argued that his familial issues stemmed from his father. 

His father, who never wanted anything to do with him, not even while Kyle was still acing all of his classes, scoring near-perfect scores on the SAT, who-

_The man’s dead, Kyle._

_Yeah, well, he was still a dick, and I’m allowed to think of him like a dick._

Oliver looked nothing like Kyle’s father. But, then again, Kyle didn’t exactly look like his father, either. They had the same dark hair, the same green eyes, but everything else must’ve been from his father’s father - the Jewish man who Kyle had associated himself with on his first night with Oliver. The blood that Kyle had chosen as his own when his eyes landed on Oliver’s Star of David. 

Was it daddy issues, then? The fact that Kyle had very nearly called him daddy that first night argued yes, but the rest of the evidence argued otherwise. Maybe it was the fact that he’d always liked people in positions of authority. No matter how fucked up that that may seem, Cassie Duval was two years his senior, graduating Immaculate Heart with Emily, and the most breathtaking girl Kyle had ever seen.

After Cassie came the men and women Kyle had met in bars, after buying himself a fake. He could always pass for older than he was - to everyone, it seemed, but Oliver, who called his bluff right away.

Oliver… Oliver, who he didn’t know was his professor. Oliver, who seemed a little young to be teaching a lecture like the class he was in. Oliver, with those pretty blue eyes and those strong arms and the warm smell of his body odor, and-

_Gross, Kyle. Who thinks body odor is sexy?_

Wednesday’s ease turned quickly into that unsettling feeling in Kyle’s stomach on Thursday. The first day of class was over, for both his Tuesday/Thursday classes and his Monday/Wednesday/Friday classes. He’d put in the work he needed to do - because he’d be damned if he didn’t make the Dean’s List at the very least his first semester - but there was still that feeling that he was forgetting something.

If Kyle had dreamed anything normal in the past eighteen years of his life, he would argue that it was the feeling of forgetting your pants before presenting something in front of a class.

_But does anyone actually have that dream? That dream seems like something fake. Note to self: ask Paolo about the no-pants dream._

His first class of the day went fine. It was an actual lecture, and he found himself struggling to focus while taking notes. The sounds of keyboards tapping around him was distracting, and there was some girl two or three rows behind him snapping her gum, and one boy who was breathing far too heavily, and some kid who raised his hand with his thumb tucked in front of his other four fingers like he was saluting something while his nails were oddly perfectly square and - _why are his fucking nails bothering you so much? Is it the nails or is it the way he raises his hand? Or is it the way he talks? Or are you just nervous about seeing Oliver next class?_

_Yes! Now shut up and let me take notes_.

When the lecture ended, Kyle ended up with half of the notes he’d intended on taking, his handwriting looking more of a mess than ever. Luckily, the professor said that she posted the PowerPoints she used in class on their Vergil board - he could look back over them later, instead of stressing out about the fact that he’d missed them because he was so distracted by some kid’s nails. 

_Just sit in front of him on Tuesday. That’ll solve the problem._  
_  
Except for the fact that I know his stupid nails and the stupid way he raises his hand are gonna be right behind me. Fuck…_

He was distracted with thoughts like that - thoughts that he knew he shouldn’t be lingering on - the entire walk to Oliver’s class. He was still stuck in his own head while he subconsciously made his way to the back of the room, taking the seat beside Paolo. He didn’t realize that he was being spoken to for another moment, blinking his eyes back into focus as he turned his gaze on the boy sitting beside him. 

“—you doing alright? Kyle?” 

It was amusing, in an endearing way, to hear Paolo and his thick accent say _Kyle_ like that. Kyle knew as well as anyone how American his name was. Kyle, Adam, Jared — _all of the names that people used on Vine for dumb American boys._

_The number of times I’ve heard ‘step the fuck up, Kyle’… I want to hit my head against a wall_.

_What? Oh - Paolo and the funny way he says my name. Paolo. Right. He’s talking to me_.

“Yeah - yeah - I’m fine - listen - have you ever had that no-pants dream?”

“No-pants dream?” Paolo was visibly confused. 

“Yeah - the no-pants dream. The dream where you’ve got this big presentation or whatever and then you go to school and turns out you don’t have pants on but nobody tells you that ’til you’re presenting or whatever. I’m convinced it’s just a myth.”

Before Paolo had time to answer Kyle’s question about the no-pants dream - he’d started to shake his head (more proof, to Kyle, that the no-pants dream didn’t really exist) - Oliver was calling the class’ attention to him.

His voice was soothing, to Kyle. Suddenly, there wasn’t the tapping of fingers on keyboards of overenthusiastic students just trying to prove how fast they could type, or the scratching of pencils on notebooks, or the popping of gum, or some weird kid who raised his hand with four fingers upwards and his thumb tucked up against his palm. It was just a classroom, with Oliver’s voice at the head of it.

Oliver’s voice, Oliver’s body - a pretty blue shirt that looked like it was made to suit him, and, somehow, didn’t look like it was far too hot to be wearing on a 91 degree day in Manhattan. Kyle, unfortunately, still had to leave his favorite jacket behind ( _definitely_ too hot to be wearing in 91 degree weather), despite the fact that he was nearly stubborn enough to wear it that morning.

_Oliver…_ something about the origin of most present-day languages starting from the Greek, Latin, or Arabic, something about the development of alphabets - the building blocks of language was letters - something about the way he just managed to command a classroom. All eyes on him - Kyle was certain of it. Anyone who dared glance down at their phone during this lecture wasn’t worth Oliver’s presence, he decided. That included Paolo - who Kyle saw checking his screen beneath the desk more times than once during the duration of the lecture.

By the time they were well into the class, Kyle decided that he’d been panicking for no reason. Oliver’s eyes roamed over the classroom equally - which meant that there were a few times when Kyle caught his gaze, unlike the first day, when that gaze was very clearly avoiding his own - and the class was going about as if he hadn’t fucked his teacher a little less than a week ago. Things were fine. He could get through this class just fine. There’d be some fantasizing about his professor, but that was fine. 

He’d come to terms with that as Oliver concluded class, packing his notebook - again, only half the notes were caught, mostly because he’d been lost in his thoughts about Oliver, about his time with Oliver, about the feeling of one of Oliver’s calloused hands wrapping around Kyle’s own and telling him to _stay_ , to catch all of what Oliver had told them about letters and origins and whatever - into his backpack. 

“I do not recall ever having a ‘no-pants dream’,” Paolo was telling him as they descended the steps in the lecture hall to leave the room and continue about their respective days. Kyle shot a glance at him, nodding. 

“It doesn’t actually exist - no matter how many times Google is gonna tell you that it does, I’m convinced nobody has the no-pants dream, it’s just not realistic—”

Kyle was cut off by the sound of someone clearing their throat, and a familiar voice nearly stopping him dead in his tracks. “Mr…. Scheible. Can I speak to you for a minute?” _Shit…_

He could feel the look that Paolo was giving him - _how are you already in trouble?_ \- a look he had gotten more times than once from his friends in many different situations - but he ignored the look, turning on his heel to face Oliver after muttering a dismissal to Paolo.

“Mhm…” he simply replied, slowly approaching the table at the front of the room as the rest of the students filed out, leaving himself and Oliver in a lecture hall that suddenly felt a lot bigger than it had five minutes ago.

Once the door had closed behind the last student, Kyle tried his best not to fidget, or bounce on his toes, or appear any younger than he was certain he currently appeared. “Let’s talk in my office,” Oliver told him. Kyle wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

Going to Oliver’s office meant a walk across campus together, but not really together. _More like you following him a pace behind like some kind of lost puppy._ It also meant getting to speak in a room that didn’t feel like it would echo their words back at them. So, instead of commenting on how he felt about Oliver’s choice - considering he wasn’t really sure how he felt about Oliver’s choice - he just nodded, letting Oliver lead the way to the door.

He mumbled a thanks as the door was held open for him, ducking his head as he made his way out into the hall and waited for Oliver. Then, he fell into pace exactly as he’d thought he would - a step behind Oliver, trying not to curse as they made it outside into the too-hot air. 

Oliver’s office wasn’t too far away - but, then again, Columbia’s campus wasn’t exactly the definition of _sprawling_ ; nothing was too far away from anything else. Even with the short walk, though, Kyle felt paranoid, like there were people watching them, like every pair of eyes they passed knew exactly what they’d done.

_What they’d done - like I knew he was my professor when we slept together. Do you really think that I still would’ve slept with him if I’d known?_

_Yes, Kyle. That’s definitely something you would do. Especially if you weren’t sober._

The feeling of entering an air conditioned building was a relief - Kyle practically wanted to melt onto the tile floor. Sacramento summers could get just as hot as this, but he’d been away from Sacramento for so many months already, the heat felt unusual to him. 

Instead of melting onto the tile, though, Kyle followed Oliver up stairs after stairs - of _course_ it was just as many stairs as it took to get to his apartment - or so it seemed, by the way Kyle wanted to collapse after the final flight ( _physical education isn’t helping me at all, huh, Columbia? Why the fuck do I have to take physical education??)_.

He watched as Oliver moved down a seemingly endless hallway with dozens of identical doors - only sticky notes, posters, nameplates, and the likes to identify one from the other. Oliver’s door was relatively plain, just a nameplate - _Oliver H. Goodman; Classics_ \- and two sticky notes — _Be back soon!_ and _Email me at ohg327 if you need me in the meantime!_

_H_ , Kyle considered, his head tilting to the side slightly as Oliver unlocked the door. “What’s the “H” stand for?” he asked, the words coming out of his mouth before Kyle had fully decided that he wanted to ask.

That earned a chuckle out of Oliver, who just shook his head. “You really don’t want to know. It’ll ruin the whole image I put up of myself.” 

_What’s that supposed to mean?_ Kyle asked himself as he vaguely heard Oliver mumbling about getting the “H” removed from his nameplate, following him into the office once the door was open.

It was small - just as small as mostly everything in New York was - but Kyle could’ve easily connected it to Oliver if he had ended up there after being blindfolded. It had the same warm, homey feeling that Oliver’s apartment had. Bookshelves lined the walls, and they were mostly filled. Kyle could just picture how it would be as soon as Oliver ran out of bookshelf space - his books would start piling up on the ground just like they’d done at his apartment.

There was an overstuffed couch pushed up against the wall by the door - it looked like it’d been through at least three separate owners before Oliver, but it also looked like a place that Kyle could imagine Oliver taking a nap (whether it be curled up or with his legs dangling over the sides, because Oliver seemed too tall for it). 

The desk was old but ornate - something he’d expected from a professor - with a chair that looked like it’d been well-used behind it, and two that were clearly intended for students in front of it. Once the door was closed, Oliver offered one of those seats to Kyle, who took it after dropping his backpack to the floor.

“So…” Kyle started after a moment of silence between the two of them, unsure why he was really there to begin with.

“So,” Oliver replied, clapping his hands together quietly and sitting down in his chair behind the desk. He clearly had something to say, but the words weren’t coming out. Looking at him expectantly, Kyle raised his eyebrows, trying to encourage him to say whatever it was that he’d brought Kyle there to say.

Trying to keep himself from tapping his foot, Kyle had to force himself to breathe. This was fine. Things would be fine. They were in Oliver’s office, not the dean’s, and Oliver couldn’t exactly expel him from the university, right? Before Kyle allowed himself to fall down a hole of what this meeting could possibly be about, though, Oliver was speaking again.

“I just wanted to let you know that… I’m not going to hold last Saturday night against you. I’m not going to grade your assignments any differently… you aren’t going to be treated any differently than any other student.” Oliver looked like he’d practiced these words a thousand times in a mirror, but they still didn’t come out the way he’d wanted them to.

There’s a pause. Then, Oliver continues. “I just don’t want you to regret any of it.” 

_It._ What a purposefully vague word choice. _It_ could mean Saturday night. _It_ could mean taking Oliver’s class. _It_ could mean getting drunk. _It_ could mean cuddling the man who - _turns out_ \- is your professor. 

“I don’t regret it,” Kyle replied, likely far faster than he should’ve. Oliver gave him a look that agreed - Kyle was jumping to conclusions when he should be thinking things over, being as impulsive as ever. 

“This doesn’t change anything, Kyle. I’m still your professor, and, like I said on the first day of class, I’m here for you if you need anything - just like I am for the rest of your class. And… like I said on Sunday…” Oliver took a deep breath, like this part was painful for him to say. “Call me if you need anything.”

Trying not to stiffen up, Kyle just nodded, scratching at his neck. “Okay… yeah. Thanks,” he mumbled, nipping on the inside of his cheek. That did absolutely nothing to clear things up. If anything, it just added to his confusion. Glancing around the office, Kyle tried to straighten out his thoughts. 

He knew that he enjoyed his time with Oliver. He knew that he didn’t want that to be the last time that he felt like he was safe like that - wrapped up in Oliver’s arms, to sleep a night without nightmares, to know that he’d wake up without being yelled at about something or another. 

_Wow, way to get depressing again._

But he also knew that Oliver was his professor. That things couldn’t continue the way they’d started, because of the power imbalance between the two of them, at least for this semester. An issue with that: they were only in the second week of the semester. Kyle had to wait until December 21st (at the latest - he really should check what day Oliver’s final was on) to not be his student anymore.

And, even after that, would it still be considered a relationship with his professor, simply due to the fact that Oliver was teaching at Columbia, and Kyle was a student? It felt like his head was spinning. 

Blaming the spinning on the heat outside, ( _it’s just dehydration. You’re fine. You passed a water fountain in the hallway._ ) Kyle nodded again. “Thanks,” he repeated, clearing his throat and going to stand up. Grabbing his bag from the floor, Kyle tried to focus on getting out of the room. 

His eyes landed on a piece of paper - marked to all hell by a blue pen - on Oliver’s desk. The header had a date - only a week ago - and a title - something about Heraclitus, Kyle wasn’t really sure - and then a name. _Goodman, Oliver Hyman_. 

_Hyman? The “H” stands for Hyman?_ He had to force himself to keep from laughing. Burying his face in his elbow, Kyle pushed a hand through his hair, trying not to snort. Well, Oliver was right - knowing his middle name did ruin the appearance he tried to give off, until Kyle realized that he was standing in an office, surrounded on all sides by books. It was a room that, oddly, matched the name Hyman. _Hyman… Jesus Christ…_

Finally pulling his backpack back onto his shoulder, Kyle cleared his throat, nodding. “Okay. Great. Great… thanks. I… guess I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

Oliver stood up with him, taking the three paces it required for him to get from his desk to the door to pull it open for Kyle. “I’ll see you Tuesday, Kyle. Have a good weekend.”

“You, too.” _It won’t be as good as last weekend, considering I won’t get to sleep with you, but…_

_God, Kyle, what happened to no attachments?_

_No attachments flew out the window when he told you to stay and you know it._

Kyle didn’t realize he was long past the water fountain until he was halfway down the first flight of stairs, still trying to figure out what he was going to do about his Oliver situation. Deciding it was best to just head back to the dorm instead of lingering around Oliver’s office, Kyle continued down the stairs, tugging his phone from his pocket just to check it.

There was a text from Paolo, unsurprisingly asking him about what Oliver needed him for.

_nothing important. see you  
later?_

That wasn’t technically a lie - it was a conversation about how Oliver was going to treat him normally. If it was life-changing, he would’ve said so.

Instead of focusing on spending time with Paolo that afternoon, or doing homework that he should probably get done before it was too late, Kyle headed back out into the heat. Trying to figure out what he’d do for the rest of the semester, he let his feet carry him back to his dorm, while his thoughts were distracted by Oliver. 

_You don’t really need him, do you?_

_Do I?_

_You’ve got Paolo._

_That’s not the same…_

_Fuck me…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a useless talk, huh? Both of them really need to figure out what they want to do about this relationship.
> 
> You get to know a little more about Kyle's family life in this chapter. I think it helps explain why Kyle behaves the way he does. And why he likes having Oliver around so much.
> 
> There's Oliver's middle name! Hyman - an Americanized version of the name Heiman/Haimann; which comes from the Hebrew word "חַי" - pronounced "chai" (not like the tea; more like the way Americans pronounce "hi"); meaning "life". 
> 
> Tell me, have you guys ever had the no-pants dream? I haven't, and I'm about as convinced as Kyle is that it's just a myth.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Comments & kudos are always appreciated! I honestly can't tell you when the next chapter's going to be up (I may not be a Mechanical Engineering major like Kyle, but I am still a student), but I'll do my best to get you an update sometime soon! Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
